Trying for Eden
by Kasey D
Summary: The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters. slash, het, time-travel, slow-moving HP/TMR
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**Trying for Eden

**Summary: **The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

**Genre: **Angst, Drama, Horror, Romance, etc.

**Pairings: **HP/TMR, implied HG/RW, implied HP/GW, HP+RW bromance

**Warnings: **Slash, het, violence, minor gore, time travel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note:** So, some minor liberties were taken with the ages of Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. In the book (American version) they're described as _little_ but there is no real way to tell their age. So I'm making them eleven. Also, I'm assuming the incident occurred fairly close to when Tom was introduced to Dumbledore and told about Hogwarts because it was very obviously on Tom's mind during that encounter. I don't know so much about Billy Stubbs's rabbit, so I'm going to have those incidents happen even closer together than they may have in actual cannon. FYI.

xXx

The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

A gleam of wicked pride—_only I am capable of something like this… I'm so much __**better**__ than any of them no matter what Billy Stubbs may say—_darkened viridian eyes as the rope stuck to the rafters with the force of Tom's fiery anger; a trophy for everyone to see, a declaration that no one would _ever_ cross him again. And the children wouldn't, because they were scared of him. Tom had seen that at least, hidden behind the cruel words that Billy had slung at him the day before—_speak ill of my dead mother_—but Billy was right because she couldn't have been great if she died just from giving birth, and it was with a sense of sharp bitterness and overwhelming pride that Tom turned on his heel to sweep out of the dining hall.

No one would know that it was him that had done it. Oh, they could _suspect_, but there was no way that anyone would be able to know, not with the pretty pretenses he kept up—quite like Mrs. Cole, who pretended not to drink, but hid away in her office when she thought none of the children were around… what a horrible, pathetic woman that matron was, but Tom supposed he should have expected it because _no one _was ever who they were meant to be. Oh, he would be, Tom knew that, but _no one else—_

"You shouldn't have done that."

Like a whip cracking against water drenched skin, Tom gave an undignified yelp of surprise and turned around—_no one was supposed to be here!—_to take in who had caught him—_punish him, _a voice whispered in his head, _make him hurt like only you can—_but the person who caught him wasn't exactly the person Tom had been expecting.

One of the older kids, certainly, for the voice had _sounded_ older, but instead Tom saw a face he didn't recognize; a mop of messy black hair that stood out in all directions and bright green eyes which peered at him through thick lenses, almost appraisingly. But the strangest thing about the older boy was not that the unrecognizable boy had seen him, but that the boy himself was… not all there. As if he was a specter. A ghost.

Tom's lip curled.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," Tom hissed, drawing closer to the door. "I didn't do nothin'!"

The older boy sighed and crossed his arms across his chest. "You know very well what I'm talking about Tom. That's Billy Stubbs's rabbit. You killed it."

"Says who?" Tom spat, glaring at the strange see-through boy with all his might. "You? You're not even supposed to be here. You aren't even real! You're just a…a—"

"Ghost?" The boy finished with a deadly serious expression on his face. "That's how it's supposed to be." Suddenly, the older boy's expression grew sheepish. "At least, that's what Hermione said was supposed to happen and as she's rather clever about these things, I'll believe her."

Tom stared at the older boy with a shocked look on his face; his skin had paled dramatically at the boys first words—_ghost, _he had said, but Tom thought he knew enough to know that ghosts _didn't even exist, _so how on _earth_ could this… boy… claim to be a ghost? A figment of his imagination, probably. Some little part within him was probably quailing at the fact that he shouldn't have hurt Billy Stubbs's rabbit, but—_no! He deserved it! Billy deserves every ounce of punishment I can bestow upon him! This is nothing. Maybe I'm just dreaming._

Still, his rampant thoughts didn't keep Tom from latching onto the second best thing to talk about. "Hermione?" he asked incredulously. "She's not even a real person. I know because we're doing Shakespeare for our lessons."

The boy sighed. "That's not the point. The point is, you shouldn't have done that. Killing is wrong."

"And like I said before, I don't know what you're talking about! Now go away!" Furious that this apparition was not leaving him be to gloat in the punishment he was bestowing upon the deserving, Tom turned on his heel and strode from the room, pausing long enough to peer around the corner to ensure that no one saw him leaving the scene of his crime.

With a purposeful step, Tom vaulted up the stairs and down the dank corridor; he could hear rain pattering against the window at the far end of the hallway—such a dreary day it had proved to be, and Tom had to admit that it went well with what he had planned. Getting Billy back was the only thing he had been able to think about since Billy said such horrible things about his mother, but Mrs. Cole had done her damnedest to intervene in their fight.

Tom's lip curled as he slipped into his room, closing the door quietly behind him. No one would know. No one would know that he did it, no matter how much they accused him of such a thing. And if they kept on the topic—well, Tom had made the rabbit hurt in his infinite anger, had made it twist and writhe and release an agonizing sound that no animal had any right to make and if he could do it to Billy's stupid rabbit, he could certainly do it to them too. His anger had been so sharp, so fierce, so _palpable_—

"You know it's rude to walk out on someone in the middle of a conversation," an eerily familiar voice proclaimed, and Tom whirled around once more, his face flushing hot in his fury. The ghost boy was standing before his door, leaning against it almost casually. His eyes—so bright and green and _strange_ (_like how everyone claims me to be, _Tom thought through the burning haze of rage) watching him with darkness churning in their depths, as if they simply _knew—_

"What do you want?" Tom snarled, backpedaling until he was flush against his desk. "I thought I told you to leave me alone! Who are you?"

"My name is Harry," the apparition said, smoothing his disheveled bangs down over his forehead. "I'm here to save you."

The words sent a jolt of pure shock through Tom, and he could only narrow his eyes and let his lips curl into a disbelieving sneer.

"Save me?" Tom asked mockingly. "From what?"

A series of emotions stole over Harry's face then—and how strange it was to think of him as Harry, this ghost stranger, but Tom had seen and done stranger things before—_I can make them hurt, all of them, they all deserve it—_none of which Tom could put a name to. The ghost staggered away from the door, his transparent hand reaching forward to settle on his shoulder. Tom froze, feeling the strange warmth that was _not _supposed to be there as it breached the barrier that were his clothes—_ghosts aren't supposed to feel like that, are they? Like they're living, like they bleed and feel and—but what do I know about ghosts? I've never seen one before, have I? None but him._

_It must be a dream._

Except it couldn't be. Not if Tom could _feel _him.

Harry knelt slightly and truth shone through in his expression. A greedy, selfish need to know suddenly wormed its way through Tom's chest and _just like everyone else_ he was going to get what he wanted, going to know like he was supposed to—

But the truth disappeared, shuttered off behind a dark frown as the ghost—Harry—regarded him seriously, a strange sense of resignation seeping into his expression and lining his teenage face with weariness.

"Ask me when you're older," Harry replied. "I'll tell you then."

With the force of a thousand white hot knives scorching his skin, Tom jerked away from the apparition, the cool caress of wind slamming into the spot where Harry's warm hand had been only moments before, sucking all the heat away. A prickling sensation of hatred bled into Tom's chest and his cheeks went white in his absolute anger.

"Tell me now!" Tom bellowed with such a ringing force that Harry took a step away from him, his expression veiled with an unimpressed frown. Tom opened his mouth to demand Harry listen to him once more—_I can make them do what I want to, too_—but a sudden agonized wail echoed up through the creaky floorboards. Suddenly Tom wasn't interested in Harry, but the sound, because he could recognize despair anywhere (_it surrounded him in waves_) and his bestowed punishment had finally come to fruition.

Billy had found his rabbit.

That was all that mattered.

"You really shouldn't have done that," Harry said once again, as Tom walked towards the door and cracked it open to peer outside his room with a dozen or so other orphans who had heard Billy's cry.

Tom paused long enough to send him a scathing look before it smoothed into the perfect mask of polite disinterest.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom said calmly. "I haven't done a single thing wrong."

Tom turned around just in time to see Mrs. Cole appear at the top of the stairs, frazzled and tired and absolutely horrified, a mangled white rabbit hanging loosely from her hands.

"Who did it?" She screeched, walking up to all of the doors one by one and slamming them open. "Who did this! Come out here right now—"

"They'll find out it was you," Harry said, just as Mrs. Cole slammed open the door across the hallway from Tom's, red-faced as she screamed at little Amy Benson. Amy Benson's eyes widened in horror at the sight before her, and Tom turned, ready to spit venom at the ghost that wouldn't leave him alone, but his eyes widened in shock as Mrs. Cole darted across the hall and forced open his door, his hateful words dying on his lips.

Harry was gone.

Mrs. Cole grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him around before Tom's mind even had the chance to process that the ghost had probably been a figment of his imagination. She was twice as furious as she had ever been, but Tom had planned for this eventuality, and the lie was on his tongue and out of his mouth with such forced politeness and feigned disbelief that Mrs. Cole had no choice but to believe him. She could suspect him, yes, and with all the 'funny things' that happened around Tom, he knew that she would and probably wouldn't stop. The other children would too but Tom could deal with them if he had to.

Punishment would always strike those that deserved it most.

Tom always made sure of that.

xXx_  
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_Fingers clutched at Harry's shoulder and he was dragged upright; his insides ached something fierce, and the familiar feeling that accompanied him whenever he rode via portkey was churning about in his stomach. __After the nausea passed and the spots stopped dancing in front of his eyes, Harry was coherent enough to accept the glass of water that was shoved none too gently into his hands by Hermione. She peered at him with a questioning glance, as though she had witnessed an event that was most definitely not supposed to happen._

_Taking a moment to sip at the water which felt like heaven in his parched throat, Harry thought that she would start asking him things that he had no desire to answer at that moment. His encounter with Riddle had left him disconcerted, as though the ground had disappeared from beneath his feet and left him suspended in air._

_Reviewing the memories over and over again had been simple; memories that Dumbledore had shown him the year he had died were poured neatly into a pensieve, and throughout it all, Harry had looked for the proper point in which to go back—it had been Hermione's idea to try and go back to the time before Tom Riddle had killed Billy Stubbs's rabbit and hung it from the rafters, but the only mention Harry had ever heard of it was when Dumbledore had shown up to let the matron of the orphanage know that Riddle was to be accepted into Hogwarts._

"_Going to that moment would be too late," Hermione had said. "Because we know that this act of cruelty was done with magic alone—and was probably one of the first times that Riddle started using his magic in a deadly and cruel way—its almost like a milestone in his life. His disregard for creatures he believed subservient to him started then and if we could just go back and stop it before it ever happened, we might be able to undo everything that has happened with the war."_

"_It could even undo our friendship," Ron had piped up, looking distinctly uncomfortable and ill-at-ease. Hermione had beamed at him and pulled him into a tight hug, her eyes distinctly wet._

_Harry had turned away at that point, allowed them their own private moment because they all knew the risk that came with changing the past. Still, a small smidgen of doubt niggled in the back of his mind because there was no guarantee that Riddle could be saved, no guarantee that Riddle could be turned from his course. Even before Billy's rabbit Riddle had been doing things that were far too cruel for any child to ever do to anyone else—but Harry wasn't about to doubt Hermione, and after a moment of arguing, it had been decided that Harry would go back, because he, in the end, was the most familiar with Riddle._

_Harry's head ached at that thought._

_Setting aside his glass, he peered up at Hermione and offered her a wan smile._

"_We didn't go far enough__," he said stiffly. "We were too late."_

_Hermione's eyes widened in dismay and Ron cursed violently under his breath, kicking over a wayward stool. Hermione's eyes flashed as the stool crashed into the ground, but she pressed her lips together in cool discontent instead of chastising Ron. Harry knew that she probably felt the same way that Ron had—Riddle was already on the path… how could they stop someone who appeared to have been cruel since birth—_

_**But that's not true, **__Harry thought, lifting his glass up once more and taking a deep gulp of water. __**People aren't born cruel. They choose to be that way. If we're able to steer Riddle towards another choice…**_

"_You at least talked to him, didn't you Harry?" Hermione questioned. "I know that you were on a time limit, but you didn't just give—"_

"_Of course I didn't," Harry snapped hotly. "You think I would just throw away months of preparation because Riddle killed a _rabbit_?"_

_Hermione pursed her lips at him. "Well how did he react when you spoke to him?"_

_Harry shrugged. "Exactly like you said he would; he was defensive and angry. Didn't count on getting caught at all and then when I brought up what he had done once again, he feigned ignorance."_

"_W__anker," Ron grumbled, slouching down into the chair besides Harry._

"_Well he obviously thought he was in the right to do what he'd done, didn't he? Remember what the matron said in Dumbledore's memory—Riddle and that Stubbs boy had fought the day previously… oh, I knew I should have aimed for that day instead, it might've changed everything…"_

"_We can't do anything about it now, Hermione," Harry said. "We'll just have to go to the next step." _

"_You're right of course," Hermione answered with a displeased huff. "I'll try to make the dates more exact on your next trip, but using the spell based only on mentioned events can be incredibly imprecise—"_

_Harry waved off Hermione's concern. "It doesn't matter. Just do it."_

"_I'll have to take a look at your version of Dumbledore's memory, just to be sure—"_

"_**Hermione,**__" Harry intoned with a roll of his eyes. "It's fine. I trust you. I know you'll be able to do it."_

_Hermione paused long enough to beam at him with a tremulous smile before giving a sharp nod and heading out the room. Ron and Harry exchanged amused glances, but deep down, they were both struck with the same bone weariness that came whenever they thought of undertaking such a tremendous task; they would take it on, no doubt, because it mattered and was so incredibly important, but—_

_They wished they didn't have to. But they had both lived through war and they knew, better than anyone, that just because it was wished didn't mean it would come true. People's lives could be undone, changed completely, but if it meant saving all of those who had lost loved ones…_

_Meddling with time could be a very dangerous thing, Hermione had once said, but when it came down to it, time was all they could rely on. Not even Harry knew if they would succeed in their endeavor, but as he glanced at Ron from the corner of his eye, he knew that the three of them would sure do their damnedest to try._

_There was no room for failure._

xXx

The wind bit at Tom's face, stinging his cheeks red. The air was balmy, typical of a sea side summer, but Tom wasn't used to the biting sting of the of the ocean side breeze. Tugging his jacket tighter around him, he surveyed the coastal area with a thinly veiled expression; his lips remained in a firm line as he gazed at the crashing waves, each one reaching up higher and spraying the air with drops of sea salt. Breathing in deeply, he turned and gazed at all the orphans around him—children were squealing in happiness, darting through sand and water, and Tom felt his lip curl in disgust.

Billy Stubbs stood close by Mrs. Cole and Martha, Mrs. Cole's favorite helper. He hadn't strayed far from them since he had found his precious pet hanging from the ceiling in the dining hall, and Tom couldn't stop the swell of pride at the fact that he wasn't the only one who Mrs. Cole wanted to put into an asylum. Billy had been prone to violent, hysterical tempers since his rabbit had died and Tom couldn't have thought of a more fitting punishment than that.

"All right you lot," Mrs. Cole called suddenly, gathering the attention of the children, "its time to head back to the cabin and not a word of protest from any of you!"

Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop splashed about in the cool waters momentarily, kicking up sand and sending some in Tom's direction. Tom deftly dodged the salty water, giving the two eleven-year-olds a wicked look; they snickered at him and darted off, joining the crooked line that had formed in front of Mrs. Cole.

"You too Riddle, hurry it up!"

With a huff, Tom strode towards Mrs. Cole, drawing behind one of the other children. The boy glanced at him, then immediately turned away, scooting as far from Tom as possible, but it was something that Tom was used to. Everyone avoided him since the hanging of Billy's rabbit—_suspected but not caught, just as I thought I would be—_giving him a wide berth or sending him sideways glances which practically screamed out his inherent strangeness—though Tom didn't _know_ how these things happened, he just knew that they were. And if they simply were, these strange happenings, then who was he to try to stop them? The strangeness got him what he wanted, when he wanted it. That, Tom thought, was most important.

"All right then, follow me. We'll be back in the morning."

The walk back to the cabin was tiresome, but Tom took in every ounce of scenery he could. It was always so interesting, these summer trips, and Tom wondered if Mrs. Cole would ever stop them. They had been to the country side the year before, and although there had been the constant buzz of silence lingering on all around them, Tom found that he had liked it. The constant shriek and yells of children slamming into his brain day after day left him in so foul a mood that he hadn't realized he relished the silence until he was completely immersed in it. The country trip had been his favorite, by far. Though the beach was certainly shaping up to be quite interesting…

The cabin was warm and toasty when they entered. Immediately, Tom headed towards the stairs, to the room he shared with seven of the other boys. They all scattered throughout the cabin, some heading towards the yard to play with the toys that Mrs. Cole had allowed them to bring and Tom was just grateful that they were suspicious enough of him to avoid him.

Although he was proud of his accomplishment—the rabbit had writhed, emitting painful, agonized little squeaks that had Tom's heart curdling in half-horror, half-_triumph—_the sudden avoidance of everyone, the whispers that followed him around… the children were becoming more and more lax in the control of their fear. They were giving him berths even wider than before, their eyes wide and glossed over with the sheen of tears as they saw him enter the room, despite the innocence and careful disinterest he painted in cautious colors across his face.

The whispers weren't any better. _Suspected, but not caught_ had become Tom's mantra, the little hymn he whispered in his head any time someone muttered an ill word about him—_strange, different, freak, __**monster**__—_and Amy and Dennis were the worst.

Pressing his lips into a thin, flat line, Tom pushed open his door, wondering what he could do about them. They made no secret of their intentions; they had not gone so far as to physically cause him harm, but were making small overtures… attempting to soak him with water, while immature and unsuccessful, was a statement, one that they had made quite clearly in front of the all the other orphans…

"Hullo Tom."

Tom jerked, his hand immediately swinging behind him and slamming the door shut. The snarl was on his lips before he even registered it, and when his eyes met the bright green of his… _ghost-specter-spirit_… Tom felt his shoulders tense into a hard, firm line, his body turning slightly as his hand curled into a small fist against the cool wood. He gazed at the specter through half-lidded eyes, noting that almost _nothing_ about him had changed—but why would it? Did ghosts change? They were already dead, weren't they? Preserved forever in a single, permanent form, unable to _do_ anything, unable to function properly, unable to properly exert their will—

For a brief moment, an unexplainable fear rumbled deep within his chest before he squashed it down with all the childish stubbornness of someone that didn't _understand_ the emotion, instead choosing to focus on the ghost. The ghost—Harry, it had said its name was, weeks ago—was lounging on _his_ bed, wrinkling the sheets; Tom's lips curled, and he stared at the ghost with a thinly veiled expression, unsure of how to react. It had been weeks since he had last seen him, weeks since he had been firmly rebuffed—_Ask me when you're older, I'll tell you then—_and Tom couldn't be sure it was hatred for the ghost for simply _knowing_ what Tom thought or furious resentment at the rejection the ghost had thrown in his face without even flinching, because Tom got what he wanted when he wanted it and _no one_, not even some half-there, corporeal _apparition_ was going to keep him from having it.

"You're back," Tom said flatly, his lips curling up into a smirk. "You were wrong."

The ghost frowned, as though he were having trouble understanding his meaning. Then—

"Funny, I thought you said you didn't do anything."

Tom flinched, immediately recognizing his slip; he dropped his hand from the door, curling his hands into tight little fists and narrowed his eyes at the ghost. Green peered calmly back at him, but beneath it… there something hidden in the tense set of the ghost's shoulders, despite all his faked nonchalance. It was almost as though every word was carefully thought out, pre-planned, the pros and cons of misspeaking weighed heavily before he even opened his mouth… Tom despised being manipulated, had seen the matrons of the orphanage do so with the children plenty of times in order to calm whatever temper-tantrums they found themselves susceptible to. Tom positively _burned_ at the thought of being handled like some unruly child, something to be manipulated into seeing how utterly _ridiculous_ it was being. Tom was not like the other children; he was strange, different, _better_, _stronger_ and—

"_He's a freaky little monster," _Amy Benson had said to Dennis Bishop after their lessons had finished up for the day. _"No one wants to be his friend or have anything to do with him. Why can't Mrs. Cole just send him to a different orphanage?"_

The feelings in Tom cooled, sharp and bitter and frosty.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tom said, falling back on carefully constructed innocence and disinterest. "Why are you here?"

The ghost sighed. "To help you."

Tom blinked, long and slow and child-like. "All right."

The ghost's expression sharpened, tightening into a dark scowl as he stared at him. Then, without so much as a warning, the ghost was across the room, one hand settled tightly on his small, bony shoulder.

"They're _wrong_," he said vehemently. "Whatever those other kids said to you, they're wrong."

Tom jerked away, backing into the door with a soft thud—he wasn't supposed to be _warm_, ghosts weren't real or _there_ or even completely _existing_ and he wasn't supposed to be _warm_, just _cold-cold-cold_ like night terrors and the ever-constant thrum of fear and Tom wanted his triumph back, wanted it more than the furious anger he felt towards the ghost—_Harry_—because at least it was his and unshared and—

"What would you know?" Tom hissed furiously. "You _left._"

Harry froze, his hand becoming light as air as it loosened, then hovered uncertainly above the younger boy's shoulder. Tom's gaze was hot, burning vicious lines of _accusation_ across Harry's non-existent skin, and Harry stared, his green eyes wide in realization before he took a careful, measured step back.

"Tom," he said gently. The manipulation was back. Tom didn't like it. "I never said I would stay."

"Just that you'd save me," Tom spat.

"So you want to be treated like you're less than what you are?" Harry asked incredulously, shaking his head. "You can handle those children fine. You had no problem with Billy Stubbs—"

"I'm not a _child_—"

Harry's eyes flashed. "Prove it," he said roughly, more emotion and fierceness and _anything _that Tom had ever heard from any adult _ever_. "Make an adult decision. See if you can choose what is right over what is easy." Harry paused long enough to kneel in front of him, settling his _too-warm-too-real_ hands on Tom's shoulders. "Because honestly Tom? I don't think you can."

"I will always do what is right for me," Tom said, silky-smooth and utterly blank. "No one will ever make me out to be less than what I am. I will not be inferior."

Harry released him. Stepped back. "I expected that."

Harry disappeared.

_Gone, _Tom thought, a strange, all-consuming _anger_ working its way through his body, making his fingers tingle and his blood thrum heavily in his veins. His eyes swept the room, landing on the bed. The sheets were still wrinkled and _warm_ when he pressed his hands against them, and with a fury unfitting of an eleven-year-old, he darted forward and yanked the sheets off the bed, snarling angrily, because—_I will make him suffer. I won't allow this to go unpunished—_

The door behind him slammed open.

Turning his liquid dark gaze to whoever entered the room, he felt a sparkle of malicious delight as he caught the sight of pretty little Amy Benson—Dennis was hovering behind her shoulder, staring at him with an expression caught halfway between disgust and exaltation; _finally, _his expression seemed to say, _we found him._

"Hello Riddle," Amy said falsely amicable, inching into the room slightly. She peered at the mess he had made, her lips curling as she exchanged a wary glance with her partner; Dennis grinned maliciously—he was tall for his age, bigger than most eleven-year-olds, but Tom didn't care. They were there, the people who called him _monster—_who thought they were well within their rights to just _insult _him… and he could make them do whatever he wanted, could impose his will upon them, could make them hurt just as he had made Billy Stubbs's rabbit hurt, could make them _regret _and _beg_ and—

"So this is what freaks with no friends do," Dennis said, looking around. He moved closer to Tom, kicked at the dresser beside his bed. A small, cheap metal frame with a picture of the only person Tom ever _wanted_ shook, teetering over the edge and clattering to the floor. Dennis caught Tom's eye, lifted his foot and stepped on it. "No wonder your mother went and died on you."

—_SUFFER—_

_Freakmonsterweirdstrange _and there was a need to _hurtteachhimhisplace _because they would never let him get away with what he had done to Billy's rabbit, not after Amy had seen the expression on his face... that pure, unadulterated wicked _glee_ and Tom's mind briefly flickered back to what Harry had said, so resolutely, weeks ago—_They'll find out it was you—_but despite that, despite them knowing, there was still _fearsomuchfear—he's-going-to-hurt-us-TOO _and Tom would because he was superior in every way—

Amy was the first to break. Dennis followed not a few seconds later.

Tom's watched them, the thick heady feeling of triumph flushing his face red. "Let's go play," Tom said, his voice the smooth flavor of a suggested-demand.

"_Okay,_" they both said, voices hazy and soft and _obedient._

Tom smiled darkly.

xXx_  
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_The color bled from his surroundings the moment he opened his eyes, but all Harry could think of was that he needed __**more time**__ and the sick churning in stomach which meant that he had __**failedfailedfailed. **__Hermione was beside him, wiping sweat from his brow, but she was caught in a frightening gray-scale, one that made Harry's muscles clench in panic. This was worse than the last time, worse than being parched and thirsty and weak, because now his vision was going and the repercussions weren't supposed to build upon one another so __**quickly.**_

"_I have to go back," Harry managed; his voice was scratchy and pained. "I have to—"_

"_Here," Ron said, shoving a glass of water in Harry's hand. "I know you didn't mean to do it, but that was really freaky mate."_

_Harry paused, his fingers scrabbling at the glass before he stilled. He watched, uncertain as to what they were talking about, but the fierce look Hermione sent in Ron's direction was enough to let him know that whatever had happened was not good. His hand trembled as he pushed the glass to his lips and when he was finished, Ron heaved him up from under the armpits and set him on his customary stool; brown, three-legged and crooked, but useful, because Harry knew he wouldn't be able to walk if he tried. His legs had the consistency of jelly._

"_So," Hermione asked, peering at him inquisitively, "what happened?"_

"_Not a lot," Harry admitted grudgingly. "He did admit to killing the rabbit—"_

"_I wish I knew if that was progress__," Hermione interrupted woefully, tossing her long hair out of her face. "Was he repentant?"_

_Harry shook his head. "We… went too far back this time," Harry admitted reluctantly, "I don't think we'll be able to land close enough next time to stop him."_

_Hermione frowned. "Harry?"_

"_He's really angry," Harry said softly._

_Ron snorted, leaning against the table next to him. "But it's Voldemort. He's __**always**__ angry. I'd be surprised if he wasn't."_

_Hermione didn't miss the guilt. She was watching him shrewdly, her eyes narrowing and her lips pursing as Harry fidgeted under her scrutiny. Sure, they were older now and Harry should have been used to her seeing through pretty much __**everything**__ he felt, but at least he knew what he was feeling when it happened. This time… Harry wasn't quite sure whether he should be pleased that Tom Riddle felt hatred towards him even as a child, or guilty for making him feel… Harry immediately crushed the thought, because thinking about things like that was hardly going to help. Yes, no one could have expected Riddle having such a violent reaction to just him being there, but Harry couldn't feel bad. He was going to make things better, make sure that people could have happier lives, and if meant trying to change one single person…_

_He'd have to keep the promise out of his words. It'd been so long since anyone kept theirs, Harry had forgotten what it sounded like. Such resolution, such determination—even if he was violent and angry and vengeful, Tom Riddle was still a child, and promises appealed to them more than the truth. The truth, he knew, could at least be turned into a lie. The truth could easily morph into something recognizable. It could be handled. But the promises—_

"_I told him I'd save him," Harry said, wincing internally when Hermione jerked hard and her glare turned poisonous. "I didn't expect—"_

"_Well," Hermione said after a long moment, fury coloring her words, "at least we know he's not so far out of reach that he doesn't have some hope of things getting better."_

"_How is that __**good**__?" Ron asked as his face twisted in disbelief. "I mean, just because he reacted to Harry doesn't mean he's not going to hurt those kids."_

"_I know, Ronald," Hermione said impatiently. "But we'll deal with that later. Right now—" she heaved a breath, physically calming herself before she addressed Harry once again. "—are you all right?"_

_Harry nodded. "I'm fine."_

_Hermione and Ron exchanged glances then and Harry felt the familiar coiling of annoyance in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't so wrapped up in the eleven-year-old Riddle that he didn't know when someone was hiding something from him, and suddenly Ron's words came rushing back into his mind—it couldn't just be the gray-scale. That had faded, slowly bleeding into something resembling normal; Hermione's hair was a thick, chestnut brown, and Ron's freckles were the distant shade of fleshy-peach and cinnamon. Hermione's shirt was bright scarlet, while Ron's was a deep emerald; the color was there, and vibrant, and his legs no longer struggled to support his weight. Something had happened, yes, and the repercussions were worse than the last time, but at the very least he __**had**__ recovered. _

_Glancing towards the center of the room, Harry's eyes traced the pentacle; made from white chalk and candle wax, it was what allowed his… spirit… Harry, supposed, to travel through the temporal rift Hermione and Ron's magic had trouble sustaining for more than only a few minutes at a time. The familiarity of his form was only because Harry willed it to be; Hermione retained reservations about keeping something so utterly familiar, but Harry had decided that if they were going to change time, it wouldn't matter if Tom Riddle recognized him in the future, because the chances of them even running into one another would be slim. The future was going to be different, after all. Bonds were going to be torn apart, dissolved. People would live. Wizards wouldn't have to know what it meant to live in fear or speak a name or just __**exist**__ because they were different and—the strain of new memories hadn't filtered into his brain yet. Yes, Tom reacted to the promise, felt as though Harry's words had held the weight of the world in them, but it wasn't enough. Harry was just a spirit, manifesting itself in a corporeal form for Tom, and only Tom, to see. He would be gone for long stretches of time until Hermione was able to pin down a more specific target date—and those few minutes, well, they just weren't __**enough. **__Harry needed more time, his friends needed more __**strength—**_

"_I'm not going to be able to keep this up much longer," Harry said, catching the guilty cast to Hermione's face. "Did I almost die or something?"_

"Harry_**,**__" Hermione said, her voice going shrilly. "You didn't—we made absolutely __**sure**__—"_

"Hermione_**,**__" Harry said sharply, cutting her off. She blinked at him, her lips thinning into a severe line and her eyes burning hot._

"_Your body isn't sustaining its form," she replied. "What I mean is—"_

"_You started to fade," Ron interrupted, earning a glare from Hermione, "into the _past_**.**__"_

_Harry stared. A cold fear trickled into his chest, and it must have shown on his face because Hermione's eyes widened, her mouth working quickly as Harry tried to wrap his mind around the fact he started to __**fade—**__the repercussions weren't supposed to be that bad, not for a while, and he was __**fading, **__ceasing to exist, __**dying—**_No, _Harry thought, pushing the fear back down and forcing it into something sane, _I was being pulled into the past. There's a difference. There _**has to be**_, _because Harry knew he wouldn't be able to survive, knew that sending his spirit was different from actually __**being**__ there and—_

_A thought worked its way into his head, suddenly calming the maelstrom of emotions that kept him frozen, terrified. He glanced to Hermione, saw her jerk and marveled faintly at her upset._

"_It wasn't _bad_," Hermione rushed to reassure him, though it was unnecessary, "just a flicker and only for a moment, and then your spirit was back in your body, but it was enough, Harry. You _won't_ be able to do this much longer and I'm starting to wonder if it's even worth—"_

"_It is," Ron and Harry said resolutely. They stared at each other, a firm foundation of understanding strengthening their resolve and their friendship, despite the weariness. Ron held out a hand and Harry clasped it, allowing his friend to help him to his feet. They both turned towards Hermione, who scowled before letting out an exasperated sigh, throwing her arms in the air in defeat—and, Harry thought with amusement, a small amount of proud affection._

"Fine," _Hermione bit out. "I think you're being incredibly dense, but… something has to change," she said softly, reaching forward. "We did agree to see this through, and I know things are going to change, I just never thought—at least, not this fast." The three of them fell silent, allowed the weight of her words to press down on them, crush them. Yet Hermione was having none of it. Straightening, Hermione gripped Harry's hand and stared at him resolutely, her hand tight and warm and Harry took some of her strength, molded it into his own. "At the very least, we're going to have to make sure that if you _do_ get pulled into the past, you aren't… unprepared. To live there, I mean. I hope you realize the things I do for you, Harry James Potter. I could very well end up—"_

"_Dead," Harry said seriously. "Kissed," Ron answered softly._

"_Fired," Hermione snapped, glaring at the two boys. "Unspeakables don't take this kind of theft and misuse of their research lightly. You do realize it was mostly theoretical to begin with, don't you? The fact that we able to get even this far on baseless speculation and daring—"_

_Harry rolled his eyes. "I understand, Hermione. Do you want the memory or not?"_

_Hermione huffed at him, lifting her wand. Harry shuffled the recent encounter with Riddle to the forefront of his mind, feeling Hermione's magic take hold; it caught the end of her wand, thread-like and silver, and Harry felt the ghost sensation of claws raking over his brain settle at the firm absence of it. Yes, the memory was still __**there—**__but hazy, almost incomplete. Hermione settled it into a tiny vial before waving her wand once more; the chalk and wax on the floor wiped itself clean, and Ron turned, handing Harry his half-empty glass of water._

"_It's too bad," Ron said as Hermione left the room. Harry glanced at him askance. "The kids," Ron clarified. "Nasty little buggers, probably deserve a good punishment but not… that. Whatever he did to them. They're just kids, you know?"_

"_I know," Harry said. "But so is he."_

"_Doesn't make it _okay,_" Ron said sharply. _

_Harry nodded; he knew, probably better than anyone, that being a child didn't make anything okay. Still, it did not change the fact that Riddle _was_ a child and Harry had to make sure he stayed that way, without the unnecessary taint._

_He made a promise, after all. _

_Harry was going to keep it._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Trying for Eden

**Summary: **The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

**Genre: **Angst, Drama, Horror, Romance, etc.

**Pairings: **HP/TMR, implied HG/RW, implied HP/GW, HP+RW bromance

**Warnings: **Slash, het, violence, minor gore, time travel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note: **Some lines from the beginning of this chapter were yanked directly from HBP—pages 270 through 275 of the American version, hardcover. I didn't take the whole scene, but more than enough and it's pretty obvious that the words aren't mine. The lines from the book are just the dialogue between Tom and Dumbledore, with plenty of actions skipped over.

Thanks to all who reviewed or put this story on their story alert. It really is appreciated.

xXx

A school of_ magic._

The words rang through his head with a painful, agonizing sharpness; the thought tasted good, weighty and_ rich_ and finally, _finally_, Tom thought he understood. He could feel the buzz in his skin, working its way up to a furious thrum, and he could only glance back and forth between each of the older man's eyes, hoping to catch some indication of him lying, hoping to see the deceit because _everyone_ was deceitful. But there was… nothing. Just a calm serenity and minor curiosity that made Riddle's skin burn in a way that was completely different from the heady buzz; he wanted to know, wanted to know _everything_ and—

"Magic?" he repeated so softly, he hardly heard himself speak.

"That's right," Dumbledore replied, and Tom was amazed at the complete lack of _guile_ in the adult's expression.

But his reservations were still there. Fear. He felt the power, knew he was different, had _always _been different and—

"It's… it's magic, what I can do?"

But the man—Dumbledore—simply answered his question with another question ("What is it that you can do?") and the thrill of simply knowing, of being able to _give it a name_ was enough for him to flush in excitement. He could do so much, was so completely _capable—_and he let Dumbledore know. Told him without even thinking about his words or watching the man's face, because it was so completely _surreal _and _amazing _and suddenly he wasn't _strange-different-freak-monster_ but _special._

"I knew I was special," he whispered, trembling from the sheer _euphoria_ of the revelation. "Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," Dumbledore replied, and Tom simply sat, basking the words the man spoke. "You are a wizard."

_A wizard._

The rapture was inescapable. It was better and more profound than anything Tom had ever experienced before; it was thick, heady. It did not taste of triumph, of the knowledge that he could do _more_ than what others could. There wasn't the sickly taint of revenge, of the need for it, of proving himself because already, with these words, he was better. Had always been. And Riddle had always known he wasn't inferior, that he was a step above all the rest—then he paused, the words coursing through his veins like a shot of cocaine. His chest heaved as he caught the Professor's eyes, wondering…

"Are you a wizard too?"

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it," Tom said, commanding and uncaring, despite the cool look that settled over the Professor's face. He didn't care. He just _had to know_ and _now _and he couldn't handle the deceit, the treachery, the _betrayal_, not now and not again and he would _not _be lied to. "Tell the truth."

"If," Dumbledore started, his bushy auburn eyebrows rising on his face, "as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"

_Because I am still inferior, _Tom thought, his expression hardening. _Being special and—and magical… that doesn't matter. They still want me to do what they want. They still want to control me. They—_

But it didn't matter. Because they would give him the tools necessary to be better and stronger and then—well, Tom couldn't really think that far ahead, then. The euphoria was still there, he was still caught up in the rapture, but he could tell that this man, this wizard, was not like the rest. Sure, he could make demands, but this man was stronger, unafraid. He was a _wizard_ and that put him on a completely different level than the people surrounding him. He wasn't Mrs. Cole or Martha or Billy Stubbs or Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, but something different. Something… more. And Tom would be, too, even if it meant his demands wouldn't be satisfied, even if it meant having to bow his head and bend his back and _submit—_

_Only the impression of submission, _Tom thought, curling his hands into fists. _Perception is everything._

"I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?"

Tom had thought the man would deny him, that he could claim he could do no such thing and then—well, Tom would know for certain that he was a liar… that he was just as useless as all the rest. Instead, the man pulled a long, thin stick from inside his jacket and flicked it at his wardrobe.

Fury burst hot and heavy in his chest the moment flames caught on the wood; he could hear himself snarling, feel the hate _build-build-build—but he is a wizard, he was telling the __**truth**__—_still, it did not change the fact that Dumbledore was destroying everything Tom ever owned, taking away his hard earned _victories_ and that was not to be tolerated, not even from someone as strong and magnificent as Professor Dumbledore—

_How dare he, _Tom thought furiously, hatefully, ready to yell and scream and _demand _as he whirled around and—

—caught Harry's eye.

Tom froze, hardly noticing the flames suddenly disappearing. The look on Harry's face was enough to still him, and he forcefully turned his gaze from Harry to Dumbledore, wondering if the Professor saw the ghost, too—but Dumbledore was merely looking at Tom. Tom allowed his gaze to wander back to the wardrobe, silently marveling. A maelstrom of hatred was working its way through his mind, but the fact remained that Dumbledore had proven it to him… wizards did exist, and the both of them were magical—

Harry settled against Tom's desk, his arms folded neatly across his chest. The expression on his face was pensive, but Tom ignored it; he didn't want to talk to the ghost, not when something so utterly _spectacular_ was occurring, and he couldn't help it when he asked about the stick Dumbledore held in his grasp, wanting one for himself, to feel the power in his hands, to be able to _set things on fire_ and make it disappear without any indication of _damage_…

"All in good time," Dumbledore replied. "I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe."

Tom froze.

"You know," Harry said conversationally, pushing off of the desk and moving towards the wardrobe. He pressed his hand against the wood, trailed his fingers over the carvings. "I never did agree with how he went about this."

"Open the door," Dumbledore said.

Tom wanted to ask Harry how he would have gone about _this_, but a cool, frosty anger was already swirling around inside of him. He couldn't understand how Harry seemed to just… _know… _and his unexpected appearances were… tiresome, to say the least. It had been months since Tom had last seen the specter, and he didn't begrudge himself that. Still, it would have been better had the ghost not appeared at all and during such a momentous occasion—_you are a wizard, _Dumbledore repeated in his mind, firm and true and Tom _knew—_

"That particular spell was a detection spell," Harry said, turning to face Tom. "More specifically, it detects lost and stolen items." He seemed disappointed, Tom noticed, but Dumbledore's instructions were clear, and he walked over to the wardrobe, brushing by Harry. The warmth was unnerving; he wished Harry was cold. Fake. Not real. It would be better if he wasn't.

The box was where Tom had last left it; sitting on the top-most shelf, quivering frantically. Harry reached forward at the same time Tom did, but Tom was faster; he snatched the box off the shelf, careful not to snarl in Harry's direction and move towards his bed, answering Dumbledore's question with a swift look of hard calculation because he _was_ inferior, and now Dumbledore knew the off-color of him. Knew that Tom had control and knew how to use it. Tom hated the fact that he had to submit to the older man and in front of Harry, no less. It burned him to know that Harry could keep this inside of him, this knowledge that Tom was weak and unable to control his own _life—give them back, _Tom thought with an internal sneer. He wouldn't have if it had just been an instruction, but he did not doubt that the older wizard would know if he didn't. Tom knew the strength that magic had, the way that it could simply _reach_ and do whatever he wanted it to do—

The cold look did not fade from his face the entire time Dumbledore was there. He wanted the man gone—no, he did not need help with his shopping and the fact that Dumbledore didn't know Tom's father chafed at him. The words rang throughout his mind, the words he always thought of his mother, despite his desire to have her _there-there-there_—

Harry shot him a thinly veiled look at the mention of his father, and Tom felt his heart freeze.

"I can speak to snakes," Tom said in a rush, wanting the feeling gone. He couldn't understand it. "I found out when we've been to the country on trips; they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"

"_Tom,_" Harry said sharply, straightening, "he doesn't need to—"

"It is unusual, but not unheard of," Dumbledore replied. Tom watched as Harry actually _flinched—_then averted his attention, holding Dumbledore's gaze for what seemed like ages. He wasn't sure what the other man was looking for—probably everything, probably nothing—but the gaze settled upon him like hot lead, strong and firm and unyielding. Tom felt himself seize underneath it, battle against it, want it _gone_… and then Dumbledore was saying goodbye and leaving, and the pressure eased, only to be replaced by the weight of Harry's gaze as they caught each others eye.

Tom stood utterly still, hating-hating-_hating_ but…

"I'm a _wizard,_" Tom said with vicious, unsuppressed glee.

"I know," Harry said, still staring at him. "So am I."

Tom jerked, his eyes widening slightly. "Really?" he asked, breathlessly excited. He moved forward, awed and amazed and Harry frowned, reaching out to press his hand against Tom's. Tom froze, so deep in his rapture he hadn't even realized he had reached for the teenager. Harry's hand was warm in his own, heavy. There were calluses along his fingers—Tom's grip tightened and he turned Harry's hand over, catching sight of his palm. He could see through the hand, see flickers of the floor, but still, his fingers didn't sink through translucent flesh, and for all intents and purposes, Harry was _real. _Slowly, so very slowly, Tom traced the lines of Harry's palm, wondering if Harry had used magic just as much as Dumbledore did, knew what Dumbledore knew, if he could _teach him_—

"Tom," Harry said slowly, "You really shouldn't have told him that. I would have warned you, only I wasn't expecting—I was lucky to even get here, so close—" Tom stared at Harry, his expression purposefully blank. Harry paused and released a long breath, kneeling before him. "Tom, I'm _sorry._"

Tom's heart stuttered to a stop. "_What?_" he asked, stunned and breathless and—he couldn't explain it, the feeling worming around in the pit of his stomach, because he was certain he never felt it before.

He couldn't remember the last time he had ever been apologized to.

"I'm going to have to leave soon," Harry said, gripping him by the shoulders. "But I _promise_ I'll be back. I don't know when, exactly, but I will be back. In the mean time, whatever you do, do _not_ tell _anyone else_ that you can talk to snakes. I promise you, it'll only make things worse at Hogwarts."

"But they're wizards."

"Yes," Harry agreed. "But even wizards aren't accepting of some things."

"Like stealing," Tom said delicately.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Albus Dumbledore is the deputy headmaster of Hogwarts. It'd be best to just listen to what he says. You'll make less trouble that way."

Tom nodded, his expression cool. He reached out for Harry once again and framed the ghost's face in his hands. He could tell the older boy was uncomfortable, but Tom had never seen a real, live wizard before—he couldn't count himself, since he hadn't _known—_but Harry had. He had said as much himself.

"You could have told me," Tom said, quietly accusing, "that I was a wizard. You didn't."

Harry frowned. "No, I didn't."

"Why?" Tom demanded. He felt the anger kindling again. It was small, almost non-existent, but it was there and growing quickly.

"You wouldn't have believed me," Harry said, "and it would have been strange for Dumbledore to get here, thinking he was going to meet a wizard completely unaware of his own magical capabilities, and instead meet someone who already _knew_ that magic existed. Its better that Dumbledore told you, trust me."

"I don't," Tom said simply, viridian eyes staring in Harry's bright green ones. "Why didn't he see you?"

Harry sighed as he removed Tom's hands from his face. He stood, towering over the eleven-year-old, but held Tom's hands in his own, gave them a firm, almost painful squeeze before releasing him. He watched Tom, his expression hardening slightly; there was determination there, fierce and unyielding and Tom couldn't stop the thought that quite clearly said it was meant for him. Because… Tom remembered. Harry said he was going to save him.

The thought was still very bitter and unwanted, but somehow, Tom couldn't manage to dredge up the same intense feeling of hate that had come so easily before. He felt drunk off the knowledge that he was a wizard—a _wizard!_—and it settled in his stomach, next to all the emotions warring beneath the surface. The coolness was there, as was the horrible knowledge that he was going to be treated like a child, not given everything he wanted… maybe he had gotten too used to his control, but no matter, he would do what he had to. Tom wouldn't remain bereft, ignorant of all there was to know. He wanted to know, wanted to be strong, wanted to show that he would not and could not be inferior, because he was _special_ and he always had been. And if simply being a wizard wasn't enough, he could _talk to snakes_. Dumbledore had said it was unusual, but not unheard of. It had to be special, unique.

_Just something more to set me apart from everyone else, _Tom thought, but the feeling was wonderful, better than anything he had ever felt before. _Different_ began to take on a whole new meaning, one which Tom welcomed, and he would not allow anyone to tarnish or diminish his delicious feeling of triumph.

"I'm only here for you, Tom," Harry answered after a moment.

"To save me," Tom said sneeringly, but there was less heat in it. "You're a ghost. You can't do anything. You shouldn't even be real."

"But I'm real to you and that's more than enough," Harry said.

"Do you think I'll be a good wizard?"

"I think you'll be a great wizard," Harry said, looking away. He bit his lip, caught Tom's eye again. "I have to go now."

Tom stilled, his eyes narrowing. When he thought about it, he realized this was the longest that the older boy had ever stayed in his presence. He folded his arms, stepped away, not even bothering to say goodbye; it didn't matter. The older boy had promised he would be back, and as troubling as it was for Tom to realize that he _believed_ him, he couldn't stop the sharp thrill of wonder at the fact that his own personal ghost was lingering about him. It was only appropriate that his ghost be a wizard, too. Anything less would have been… displeasing.

Before he realized it Tom's hands started trembling so he walked over to his bed and sat down heavily. He could do magic with his hands. Dumbledore had said his magic was out of control, but… it always worked when he wanted it to. Getting people to do what he wanted… getting the rabbit to float to the rafters, getting the rope to _stick… all of that, that was magic, _Tom thought, short of breath once again. _I was doing __**magic.**_

He glanced up, ready to share his excitement with his ghost, but Harry was gone. Fury lashed up, swift and quick and true, but he would back. Tom knew this. Harry, it seemed, existed only for Tom; if Tom wanted Harry back, then he would be. Sure, he didn't need him, and he certainly wouldn't need him around when he started learning magic—_I don't need anyone, not anymore, _Tom thought, catching sight of his hands. _Once I get my wand, I'll be able to do anything. I can do what Dumbledore did. Set things on fire. I'll be so strong. So powerful. I might even find my father. If my father's a wizard… if he knows that I'm there… he'll find me and he'll know and he'll come for me. And no one will ever be able to call me names again. I'll be so strong, so perfect…_

"I'll be able to do whatever I want," Tom said, leaning back onto his bed. His fingers bumped the stolen trinkets, and he scowled at them, but Dumbledore's warning rang shrill in his mind. Slowly, he collected the items; ever since Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop, the other children had been terrified of him, leaving him completely alone. _Not right in the head, _someone had whispered, but Tom hadn't been paying attention to whom. _He'll be in an asylum yet, just watch. After what he did to Amy and Dennis, Mrs. Cole won't keep him here. She'll have to send him away. He really is a freak._

Tom's lips curled into a smile.

_Not a freak, but magic. They'll learn. Different isn't bad, but I can make it be. _

Tom couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts.

xXx_  
><em>

_His head cracked against the floor. _

_Harry groaned, because it was all he could do. The world was gray-scale again, and oh-so very dim; the repercussions, swift and relentless, were raining down on him, gripping him in their sharp talons and holding him prisoner. His legs were weak, like flimsy tubes of toothpaste; the muscles in his arms burned, but he could feel the lingering sense of hands gripping his own—small hands, the middle finger of the left hand callused from being rubbed against a pencil. Harry paused, cataloging the feeling; how strange it was, that the feeling of touching Tom had remained when it hadn't before, and then the tingle spread, sweeping across his face like a hot blush only…_

_Hermione hadn't mentioned this. It was strange and foreign and Harry didn't like it. Yes, he had gone to the past, following the pull of Tom's presence, but the fact that Tom's presence was having such an effect on him… his failure rang loud and true in his mind—__**"whatever you do, don't let Dumbledore know that he's a Parselmouth,"**__ Hermione demanded, because that changed Dumbledore's perspective of everything, he knew. It wasn't as bad as it could be, but even so, Tom was already a thief. Dumbledore had already known that he had hurt the rabbit and done unspeakable things to Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop and now being a Parselmouth…_

_The world swam and it was difficult for Harry to hold onto his thoughts. They slipped through his grasp like liquid smoke, dispersing into nothingness as he felt trembling hands push him up into a seated position; Harry groaned, his stomach rebelling, and instantly, Hermione was covered with the half-digested food which had been settling in his gut. Harry's stomach continued to spasm even after Hermione jerked away from him; Ron gave a quiet curse, but it seemed to take him ages to get to his side. Harry wasn't quite sure—his head was so fuzzy, so thick with the knowledge that he had messed up yet again, that things were continuing down their path... and the rapture with magic, the need to accuse Harry for not saying a word, the need to have so much __**power**__ at such a young age…_

"_Harry?" Hermione asked, kneeling before him once again. She was fuzzy, tinted gray. "Are you all right?"_

"_I'm fine." Harry paused. "I can't feel my legs."_

"_Neither could I, for a minute," Hermione said, wincing slightly. "I think it would be best if we didn't keep it open that long."_

"_Yeah," Ron groaned, stepping into Harry's line of vision. "My head feels like it's about to explode."_

"_The repercussions are spreading," Hermione said quietly. Her gaze was soft, but Harry could tell she was holding something back. "It's… Harry. I don't think… maybe it would be best if we didn't…"_

"_We're going to," Harry said. "I don't care how hurt I get, we have to… so many people __**died**__, Hermione, we can't just—"_

"_I __**know,**__" Hermione snapped unkindly. "But, Harry, it's getting worse, don't you see? At least the last couple of times you were able to catch yourself. Did you even realize you were bleeding?"_

_Harry froze then lifted his arm to touch the back of his head. Moisture was slicking his hair warm; his scalp stung as he pressed his fingers to it, and they came away—_

"_I'm colorblind," Harry said flatly, staring at the dark blood he knew should be red, but wasn't. Hermione's breath hitched and she stared at him in alarm, terrified and frightened. Harry could see her physically recoiling from their decision, but they had to see it through to the end. Riddle had already __**seen **__him and even though he hadn't wanted to, he had promised the young boy, once again, something he might not be able to deliver on. Hermione was hesitating, withdrawing. There were too many risks involved, and even though they meant well, Hermione would not and could not risk Harry's well being. Harry caught Ron's gaze; he saw the unease underlined by determination and knew that Ron wouldn't give up so easily. They were risking everything by doing this; dissolving bonds, rejuvenating lost lives. So what if it was wrong? So what if it meant some people might lose the strength that allowed them to grow into better people because of their experiences? There were so many people Harry wanted __**back**__—Remus, Sirius, Tonks, Dumbledore, Snape, Fred, Colin, Moody, Dobby, James, Lily—he wanted all of them, alive and well, and even the people he didn't know. There were others out there that were cared about, other people who were still grieving, and if Harry had the power… and he did, he reminded himself, because the weight of the Elder Wand was particularly heavy in his pocket… he could change it all. Things would be better than the faint glimpses he had via the Resurrection Stone. They could be perfect. All he had to do was change Tom Riddle. Make him understand… have him make the decision to choose what was right over what was easy. _

_Harry had made the decision. He had __**died**__ for it. Because protecting all those people, ensuring that __**no one else was lost **__was more important than his own, insignificant life. Dying wasn't easy. It took every ounce of strength within him to get his legs to move, to push him forward. He had been numb, wanting more than what had been decided for him. Still, he had done it, regardless of the mind-numbing terror that made him want to flee, that made him ask so timidly whether it would hurt… he hadn't wanted it to hurt and it hadn't… but the grief… it had consumed him and everyone around him. Dealing with it had been so __**hard**__ and—_

_It had been Hermione's idea. They had all gotten jobs within the Ministry without much of a fuss, but Hermione's mind had always been made for research, and it was because of this that she had been made an Unspeakable. Harry wasn't sure what got her designated to the research of time travel, but he was certain it had to do with the fact that she was already closely acquainted with it. Even so, Harry could not forget the thrill of triumph in her eyes and the flush of excitement on her face when she said that __**they could change it all**__. _

_The Wizarding World was dying. There had to be a way to fix it._

_So they thought about it and weighed the options, because things could get worse. The pain of losing his friends had nearly crippled Harry, but things were getting worse. The world was supposed to be recovering, but it __**wasn't**__ and it didn't matter that they were being selfish, because if things could get better, if Harry could ensure that people would get to be happy or understand what it meant to be content… he would do what he could to guarantee that happiness. Even if it cost him everything. Ron had taken longer, but he agreed as well; the hole where Fred's reassuringly annoying presence had been was starting to fester over, making things difficult for him and Hermione. Even if they might never be friends in the new future, Hermione loved everyone enough to give them something back for all the suffering they had to endure. Her heart was big and bright and beautiful and Harry was glad, despite the doubts that kept her frozen, that she had decided to help._

_And she would, too. She was just that kind of person._

"_We can't stop," Harry replied, facing her. "I know, Hermione, trust me, I __**know. **__But… look, just take the memory, all right? Once you see that…"_

_Hermione pursed her lips, but lifted her wand. Harry pushed the memory to the forefront, ignoring the fact that everything was still in gray-scale. The memory attached itself to the end of Hermione's wand like a parasite and she corked it in a vial, stashing the memory away in her pocket. _

"_Let's get you cleaned up," Hermione said, and Ron strode forward, gripping Harry by his arms and hauling him to his feet. Harry staggered, pins and needles darting across the meaty part of his calves, but Ron managed to steady him, leading him to a couch on the other side of the room. Hermione disappeared—probably to find a clean shirt that didn't smell of vomit—and Ron pulled his wand from his pocket, waving it over the newly drawn pentacle on the floor. The blood, chalk, and candle wax were swept away, disappearing as if they hadn't even existed, and Harry watched blankly as Ron disappeared. He returned a moment later, a small glass of water held in his hands; Harry's arms shook but were working as he lifted them to accept the water from his friend, relishing in the wondrous feel of cool liquid sliding down his throat._

"_It's just weird, you know?" Ron asked, settling beside Harry. "When you go. We'll just have to wait and the memories are going to trickle in and everyone's going to think they're mental, but they won't be. Things will just… change."_

"_Yeah," Harry agreed numbly._

"_Ginny will miss you," Ron ventured after a moment._

"_She won't have time to remember me," Harry said, his voice sharp. "Besides, I haven't—"_

"_I know," Ron said forcefully, cutting Harry off. They shot each other a warning look, but the hostility didn't last long; Ron scowled, flinging himself back into the couch in a decidedly Hermione-like manner, and Harry smiled weakly, shaking his head and getting comfortable._

"_Let's not talk about my sister anymore," Ron said and Harry nodded his agreement._

"_I couldn't stop him," Harry said at last, "from telling Dumbledore about being a Parselmouth."_

_Ron shrugged._

_Harry glanced at him sharply. _

"_It's __**Voldemort,**__" Ron said, annoyed. "You can't bloody well expect me to care about him, can you? I mean, yeah, I don't want him to ruin the world, but I'd rather you just go back and kill him than try to change him."_

_Harry's lips twitched, even though he was far from amused. He had considered it, but a memory, one he could remember quite vividly, flashed through his head. The world was white and hazy, but he was in King's Cross Station, sitting beside Dumbledore and listening to that creature wail and wail and __**wail**__ and Harry had wanted to go to it, to hold the monster and assure it that everything would be all right, but Dumbledore had stayed him, letting him know that the monster was beyond help, that nothing could save it, that helping would be useless…_

_It had never been given the chance. Going back in time and just… killing… Tom Riddle was the easiest solution, Harry knew, but—what was right or what was easy? Killing Tom was easy. Giving him the chance to change? Harry couldn't bear to think about it. Hermione had agreed with him. No one could be evil since birth; it was their lives that shaped them, that made them who they are. Yes, Riddle had made choices, but if there was just one person around to make a __**difference**__…_

_Harry wasn't ever sure he would be enough. But even so, he was going to try. He was frightened that nothing he did or said could change anything, but he would not be helpless. Changing everything would be overwhelming and wear him down, and the few minutes he had with Tom weren't nearly enough. Yet… he could go back in time. If he pushed it enough, his body would fade. There was no guarantee he would wind up in the past, but if his body followed his spirit… they were tethered together, were meant to be one and the same and if he just __**pushed it hard enough…**_

_Hermione was terrified that he would die. Harry could understand it. After being so lucky as to have survived the fight with Voldemort, being so lucky as to remain tethered to the realm of the living because Voldemort had stolen his blood… Harry didn't want to waste the change. Yet people were vengeful and angry and the world was slowly dwindling into a facsimile of what it used to be; the Wizarding world may not have been prosperous, but it had been __**alive**__ and now it stunk of death and the rotting stench of hope that had been long forgotten. Voldemort's death had awoken something within them all, something bright and __**free**__ and almost as quickly, it had been drowned out by the sheer destruction around them. By the realization that Voldemort had done more in his three years of resurrected life than they had originally thought and victory was not supposed to be so bitter. It was not supposed to come with the disgusting taint of Voldemort's memory. _

_The fear was supposed to have died. It hadn't._

_Harry and Ron sat in silence._

"_You really want to save that wanker, don't you?" Ron asked gruffly, looking away._

"_No. Yeah. I don't know," Harry answered truthfully. _

"_We saw some of it, you know," Ron said quietly, glancing towards the door. "Hermione didn't want you to know, because it scared her, but we—I don't know what changed, but Harry. It's __**Voldemort.**__"_

"_I __**know**__," Harry said roughly, sitting up ram-rod straight. "I'm not an idiot, Ron."_

_Ron eyed Harry as if he was just that, and Harry could feel irritation rear up and bite him hard. He scowled at Ron, turning away from him, because as happy as he was that Ron was looking out for him, the thought that he had __**seen—**_

_Harry had been uncomfortable, even a little terrified. Being eighteen did not change the fact that there were still things that frightened him, and psychotic eleven-year-olds destined to turn into megalomaniacal mass-murderers were high on that list. Tom Riddle, at the simple age of __**eleven**__ was enough to make Harry feel distinctly off-kilter, and he didn't like it. Tom had focused his complete attention onto him, pushed all his rapture and excitement and longing in Harry's direction, and Harry had caught it, attempted to nurture it. Mold it into something else. Maybe the possessive glint in Riddle's eyes was disturbing and accusations thrown his way did make Harry's skin crawl, but __**someone **__had to make a difference and Harry had already decided. Harry didn't want to be friends with Riddle, or even care about him, but if changing him meant being close to him, well, Harry could do that, too. _

"_It's just __**weird,**__" Ron said forcefully, and Harry was saved from having to snap back when Hermione entered the room. She was clean of vomit and looked amazingly refreshed; there was a haunted look in her eye though, one which Harry knew was directed towards the memory, and he felt his heart skip a beat because maybe, just maybe, it was time to let someone else go back—_

"_I'm not sure where to go from here," Hermione admitted, coming to a stop before them. "I was thinking about it in the shower; the best place to send you next would be the Hogwarts express, before he gets Sorted, but… Professor Dumbledore didn't leave any memories of it. He must not have thought it important enough, and the only other one of him at such a young age is when Dumbledore encountered him after the Chamber of Secrets and Professor Slughorn's memory of him asking about the Horcruxes and by that time, it's far too __**late.**__"_

"_And there's nothing to say he'll even remember a childhood specter that harassed him when he was eleven," Harry said, dismal._

"_Exactly," Hermione agreed. "Certainly, because you were there when he learned of being a wizard, it would have some bearing on how well he'd remember you, but that's still far too late… and he would probably be completely adverse to your presence anyhow. We could __**try**__ for the Hogwarts express based off of the memory of him learning that he's a Wizard, but it'll be far too imprecise. The last times we did that, we either undershot or overshot the time…"_

"_Maybe," Ron said, glancing at them with a bright, excited gleam in his eye, "we could use the Sorting Hat."_

_Hermione stared at him, startled. "Ron—"_

"_No, think about it—Neville is training under Professor Sprout and not even that—all we'd have to do is visit McGonagall. You'd know she'd like to see us, and it would be easy to ask the Sorting Hat for a memory—"_

"_Except its an inanimate object enchanted to be sentient," Hermione pointed out briskly. "The very best we could hope for is an impression, and that wouldn't be enough—"_

"_Except it remembers," Harry said, frowning at Hermione. "When I got Sorted, it told me that I could be great in Slytherin because it recognized Tom Riddle's power inside of me. Dumbledore told me that."_

"_You're not getting it," Hermione bit out curtly. "Even if it did remember, its still just __**impressions. **__That's not nearly enough to fuel the spell and we can't leave that big of a gap in between when you see him next!"_

"Fine,"_ Harry snapped. "Then you figure it out. In the mean time, I'll just go on and pretend like a Dark Lord hasn't completely crippled the whole of the Wizarding World—"_

_Hermione gasped so suddenly and so dramatically that Harry pressed himself back into the couch, sending Ron a startled glance. Ron stared at Hermione in bemusement, his brows slowly raising as he saw the shrewd and calculating look pass over her face; one minute, realization was burning in her eyes and the next, she was already thinking through her plan, ready to put it in motion._

"_She's a bit scary at times," Ron said, but his voice was so full of fond affection that Harry couldn't help but grin._

"_Scary," Harry agreed, "but brilliant."_

"_I can hear you," Hermione said, scowling at them. "Anyways… I honestly can't believe I didn't think of it sooner! Thank you, Harry, for reminding me that there was more than __**one**__ Dark Lord, and Professor Dumbledore played a huge role in __**both**__ their lives."_

_Harry and Ron exchanged startled glances._

"_**Honestly," **__she growled. "Gellert Grindelwald. He wasn't nearly as active when Voldemort was that young, but Dumbledore __**did**__ keep many memories of him. If we can find a memory pertaining to him, and research his movements accordingly, we'll be able to pinpoint an __**exact**__ date, using Dumbledore's memories of the incident to fuel the spell and keep Tom Riddle as the focus."_

"_Well that's brilliant," Harry said. "Will the Arithmancy be able to support that?"_

_Hermione frowned. "I don't know. I'd have to look at it. But I imagine it would work the same as any other of the spells. It just might take a few times to get it right. In the mean time, we'll have to switch it up; we'll send Ron next time, just to test it, and when we're absolutely certain that we can get you to where Riddle is then we'll send you." She paused, taking a moment to eye Harry critically. "Harry—"_

"_I'm __**fine**__," Harry said, sighing in exasperation. "I can handle it, Hermione. I know it was weird, but… he killed my parents."_

"_I know you can handle it, Harry. It just worries me. You very nearly disappeared this time and we might not be able to follow you…"_

"_You're the most brilliant witch I know," Harry said with a conviction he felt down to the very marrow of his bones. "I know you'll find a way." Harry hesitated audibly. "There __**and**__ back."_

"_Yeah," Ron agreed wholeheartedly. "What he said."_

_Hermione beamed._


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Trying for Eden

**Summary: **The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

**Genre: **Angst, Drama, Horror, Romance, etc.

**Pairings: **HP/TMR, implied HG/RW, implied HP/GW, HP+RW bromance

**Warnings: **Slash, het, violence, minor gore, time travel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Author's Note: **Just so people are aware: I accidentally responded to reviews under my other penname **PURPLE URANIUM**. I didn't mean to do that (I honestly thought I was logged into this account) but just so there isn't any confusion, I have TWO pennames, and I house my InuYasha fanfiction on the other name. So, sorry about that everyone. That was an accident.

A line in this chapter is taken directly from page 271 of HBP. American version, hardcover.

xXx

Harry felt his legs jar beneath him the moment his feet connected with solid flagstone; the world around him was caught in the vicious gray-scale, blurring at the edges, and it was something that he had gotten used to. Even the sun appeared to be caught in monochromatic beams of light. His stomach twisted unpleasantly every time he realized he was trapped in the gray-gray-_gray_ of the world, and he couldn't help but wonder if it had anything to do with what he was _doing. _Changing time. Making things different.

Biting his lip, Harry cast a look around him; he only had about fifteen minutes of time before Hermione and Ron pulled him back through the rift, and he didn't know if it would be enough. An acute feeling of painful nostalgia clawed at his heart demanding recognition, but Harry ignored it, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the sheer _presence_ that was tugging at him, ordering him to follow it to its source…

The anchor was working. Hermione hadn't been sure, and the thought of it made Harry sick in the stomach, but… Riddle's presence was there. Sharp. Demanding. It had a decidedly murky taste to it like the acrid sting of bile across his tongue and in his throat. Grimacing, Harry did his best to ignore it and set off, following that pressing pull that caught him just _so_—it was like the soul that had been lodged in his mind, heavy and present and _there. _He couldn't speak Parseltongue now, but he remembered the sticky feel of it, the pain it had caused him when he focused on it. It was a hook, settled deep inside of him, disgusting and rancid and it almost terrified Harry to know that Riddle's presence nearly felt the same way. There was a lightness to it that hadn't been present with the soul fragment. It was complete and whole and not even tainted by the Dark Arts, but the hate—that hadn't changed. Yes, it had grown stronger, but the hate, the need to prove everyone wrong which drove Riddle was still the same. As worrying as it should have been, Harry was pleased by it, because if Riddle's soul had proven too different, too strange and foreign, he would not have been able to recognize it. It served his purposes, at the very least, and Harry supposed he could be grateful for that.

The memories assaulted Harry as he wandered through the castle following the pull with a single-minded determination. His journey brought him through secret passages, past dozing portraits and dusty suits of armor. There were times, Harry remembered, when the armor had been enchanted to sing carols whenever the students walked by and although it always got irritating the longer it lasted, it had always been amusing and incredibly entertaining… Harry found himself descending the staircases until he reached the ground floor. He frowned, hoping he wouldn't have to go to the dungeons, because if Riddle was in his Common Room and Harry couldn't get in, that would create a whole plethora of problems.

It had taken nearly a month for Hermione to perfect the equations and another two weeks for them to finally land somewhere substantial, and after this spell, Harry knew that Ron and Hermione would need their rest. The horrible thing was, once Harry went to a specific time, the memory they used to get there would be useless; all the magic was burned out of it, transforming the silver strand into nothing but a burnt piece of coiled thread. Dumbledore's memories, while numerous, were precious, and no matter how many tests were used on it, once the actual spell was worked in its entirety—Harry couldn't fail. They didn't have another copy. And the magic of pulling a memory was useless unless the creator of the silver thread was present and Dumbledore had died almost three years previous, under the violent green flash of Snape's wand. Getting back to this specific period would be impossible, and Harry ignored the discomfort as his unease continued to mount, hoping-hoping-_hoping_ that Tom wasn't in the dungeons… so much time and preparation had gone into getting the spell to work, so much effort and _power_—

Harry jerked so hard he nearly slammed into the wall, so focused on his unease that he didn't notice the anchor dig deeply in the floor and _pull._ Harry paused, his lungs tightening as he struggled to breathe—and then the world reoriented itself, gray and ugly and unpleasant, and Harry supposed he really shouldn't have been _surprised. _Tom was always trying to better himself, wanted to be faster and stronger and _smarter_ and that single-minded pursuit of knowledge would keep him confined within the library for the better part of his time.

Sighing heavily, Harry glanced at his watch; five minutes had passed since he first arrived, and it was with a growing sense of dismay that he entered the library. There simply wasn't enough _time; _talking to Riddle was easy, yes, but getting his words to _stick_—

Tom looked older. Not by much; his face was still round with baby fat, but it was disappearing, little by little. His hair was longer, in need of a cut, and his face was set deep in concentration. He was leaning over an open text book and his too-perfect, too-neat handwriting was swiftly filling out the three feet of parchment in front of him. He hadn't changed much, but _enough_ and Harry dreaded how much time had passed since he last saw him.

Slowly, he inched forward, lifting a hand, determined to make sure that Tom knew he was there so they could have _time_, time of which there was _too little of_ and—

"I would prefer if you did not touch me," Tom said quietly, his voice filled with far more politeness than Harry was used to. "As you can see, I am rather in the middle of something at the moment."

Harry paused, his hand hovering over Tom's shoulder for a breath longer before he drew it away.

"Sorry," he muttered, and it was if his words had ignited an explosion within Tom. Tom's hand grip his quill so hard it _snapped, _the broken pieces digging into his skin and drawing blood as he jerked his gaze up. The force of his gaze—the sheer, burning _fire_ in his eyes was enough to leave Harry breathless—pinned him like a blow to the chest; Harry stood, immobile, as those eyes raked over him, leaving hot trails of accusation digging into his skin, and Harry was certain that if Tom's gaze were daggers, he would be dead.

"_You,_" Tom breathed viciously, violence and danger and _hate_ coloring that simple word.

"Tom," Harry said slowly. "Hullo."

Tom remained silent.

Harry shuffled awkwardly, glancing around, unsure of what to do. He wasn't… sure… whether this point in Tom's life was particularly significant; he was at Hogwarts, yes, but he wasn't sure _when_ and—well, now was as good a time as any to find out, Harry supposed.

"How old are you?" Harry asked cautiously.

Tom's eyes grew hotter before he answered. "Twelve. I'll be thirteen in December."

"So you're a third year?"

"_Second_," Tom said sharply, his lips barely moving. "My birthday is after the cut-off, so I'm older than some of the other students in my year."

Harry nodded.

"I take it you made it into Slytherin?"

Tom stiffened, his eyes narrowing sharply; the heat surged forward, hot like fury, before immediately cooling into something ice cold and positively _freezing. _Harry had only seen that look directed at Dumbledore, back when Tom had been told that he was a wizard, and it frightened him that he was seeing it now, especially since Tom had given him such easy affection that day. As much as he did not want to admit it, he was hoping that he had landed earlier, back when Tom was closer to starting Hogwarts, because at least Harry knew the awe would still be there. Using that awe, that childish adoration that Tom tried to hide to his advantage would have been helpful, but instead—instead Harry was faced with hatred very similar to what he had been given before Tom had hurt Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop. Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with that.

Glancing around, he pulled out a chair and settled into it. Tom watched his movements with careful calculation, still sitting in silence.

"I bet you made loads of—"

"I have no friends," Tom stated colorlessly, utterly blank. "Purebloods don't like half-bloods and the other houses don't like Slytherins much." His face morphed then, his eyes narrowing. "You knew, didn't you, what I would go through? Tell the truth."

The order hovered in the air between them.

"I'm not _Dumbledore,_" Harry snapped, hating the ringing force of the command that Tom gave. Tom's shoulders flexed straight and he clenched his fist before hissing loudly; he looked at his hand, watching as blood seeped through his fingers and onto the parchment. His essay was spotted with blood and probably ink. Harry couldn't be sure, but the consistencies _looked_ different. Wincing sympathetically, Harry reached forward and grabbed Tom's wrist; Tom yanked on his arm, determined to get away, but Harry was stronger. He held on tight, used his other arm to fumble around in Tom's pocket and pulled out the off-white wand in it.

Tom's eyes flashed and his lip pulled back in a snarl, baring his teeth, but all Harry could focus on was the familiar thrum of power beneath his fingers, only there was nothing _life-giving _about the power he held. Only destructive. The yew was hard beneath his fingers, and the shape of the wand was morbid to say the least, but Harry held fast and flicked the wand through the air, casting the spell non-verbally—the quill put itself back together, the splinters of cartilage reconnecting until a partially unblemished white quill hung in the air. Harry flicked the wand again and the quill settled against the table; cherry wood, Harry remembered, because even though he couldn't see the rich hues of red cording throughout the wood, he _remembered _them and that was more than enough.

"_Episkey_," he said aloud, and Tom's hand went hot then cold as the injured flesh knitted back together again. He waited a moment to allow Tom's blood to cool before saying, "_Tergeo._" The blood disappeared, seemingly siphoning itself into the wand, and with a quick flick, Harry had turned the wand, handle first, back towards Tom.

Tom snatched his wand and hand away with a fierce possessiveness. Harry sighed; Tom was still very much a child.

"So you _are_ a wizard," Tom said grudgingly through gritted teeth. "How nice for you."

"I could always leave," Harry said loudly, and Tom shot him a look of pure loathing.

"But you won't."

Harry pushed his chair back and stood.

"You _won't!_" Tom repeated, loud and ringing and _demanding, _and Harry felt it down to the very marrow of his bones. The euphoria washed over him, disconnecting his mind from the translucent form of his body. Harry felt weightless and wonderful and _happy_.

_You don't want to leave. You want to sit down. _

_I don't want to leave, _Harry agreed vaguely.

_Then come. Sit beside me. _There was a pause. Why did he need to sit? Standing was just as fine._** Now**__._

_I—_

It took a second—a brief second that felt like it had stretched into hours for how pleasurably comforting the euphoria was—before the realization slammed into Harry leaving an ice-cold trickle of horror ghosting over his skin. The hair on his arms stood on end and he jerked, his will spearing through his mind and firmly anchoring it with such a force, his teeth jarred achingly when his jaw clamped shut. Fire—hot, impulsive _fire—_shot through Harry, and his arms shot forward, gripping the scratchy fabric of second-hand robes and _pulling; _Tom was lifted, his body slamming forcefully against the table, but Harry couldn't find it in himself to be sorry. His arms shook as he tried to hold Tom's weight, but it didn't matter because even though Tom was filling out, he was still far too light and his feet skimmed the floor as Harry did his best to bring him to eye level.

"Don't _ever,_" Harry said harshly into Tom's suddenly blank face, "do that to me again._"_

Tom's gaze burned into his, held it. "I suppose this is where you disappear."

Harry blinked, completely thrown off by the comment; he lowered Tom, felt the boy snatch away from him, and he stilled as the fabric of Tom's robes slipped through his lax fingers.

They stared at each other, one confused and the other furious. There was still time—not much, but it was still there, and suddenly, Harry realized that for all the careful planning they had made, Hermione never accounted for his _temper. _Many things had been given to him by Voldemort; the Parseltongue and the scar in particular, the destiny that was not his by choice… but the temper was all Harry, cultivated and nurtured by his aunt and uncle, made worse by Snape and Malfoy and Dumbledore and Ron and the inability to realize that sometimes, the resentment was all his own doing and none of theirs.

He should have realized. Tom Riddle was a difficult person to deal with and he _hated_ Harry. Tom might have wanted him there, might have wanted to see whether or not Harry's promises would come to fruition or fall the way-side—just how trustworthy was he, really?—but it didn't change the fact that Harry was trying to change him, and Tom may have seen that, a year ago. But… he was a child. Harry was supposed to have an advantage over him, knowing about the things that Tom was going to do _before he did them_, only—Harry had assumed Tom would make friends. He had seen them all around him in Slughorn's memory, had heard the stories of Tom's undeniable popularity. Had so much really changed in the first few years at Hogwarts? The Diary-Memory of Tom had said itself that he could charm people whenever he saw fit. Had Tom not yet been able to do so?

Obviously not, if he was being treated as an outcast. Then again, it was _Tom_ and if he wanted to make Harry feel bad, all he had to do was _lie_—indecision clawed at Harry, because apparently Tom had _no one_ and by the time Tom actually sought to have someone—

Harry looked at Tom and went completely, utterly _still._

"You didn't tell them," Harry said, horribly awed. Tom looked at him, his brow furrowing slightly at his confusion. Harry glanced away, unease and wariness clawing in his stomach. On the one hand, he would be acknowledging Tom's sacrifice. On the other… Tom would have a tool, a way to get the Dark families to rally around him. Which was worse? Harry wondered. Which would cause the more lasting damage? The Dark families, certainly, but… Clearing his throat, he tried to clarify, "that you're a Parselmouth. You listened to me. I… didn't expect you to."

"I'm better than all the other students," Tom said, and Harry blinked at the non-sequitur. "I'm the top of my class." He looked away from Harry, stared at his ink and blood spattered parchment. "You said I'd be a great wizard." He turned back to Harry, his eyes faintly glowing. "I _am._ There's so much power, so much _magic_ in me. I may just be a filthy half-blood—"

"_Tom,_" Harry interrupted, his voice ringing with warning.

"You knew," Tom said instead.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "I know a lot about you."

"_Why?_"

"Because—"

But whatever Harry was about to say was swallowed up in a gasp when he felt Hermione and Ron's presence slam into him with the force of wrecking ball and _yank, _Tom's figure flickering like a bad picture on an old movie reel as he blinked out of sight.

Time was up.

xXx_  
><em>

_Hermione was watching him pensively._

_They planned ahead this time and made sure Harry hadn't consumed anything prior to the jump, but the moment he felt Ron's arms clamp around him and keep him from collapsing on the floor, his stomach twisted and __**growled, **__signaling the need for food. Harry hadn't thought he had ever felt his stomach so empty. There were times when he was at the Dursley's that came a close second but it was nothing compared to now. _

"_That wasn't so bad," Ron grunted, shuffling Harry to the couch. "You didn't disappear this time."_

"_Probably because it was an indirect memory and Voldemort's presence wasn't so concentrated," Hermione said absently, still peering at Harry closely. "Harry—"_

"_Not now," Harry rasped, shaking his head. The world around him was spinning, faster and faster on its axis. He still felt so woozy. Hermione and Ron were nothing more than blurs before his eyes, thick smudges of black-white-gray in his no-color world. His tongue was heavy and dry in his mouth; his throat worked, but painfully, and Harry wished more than anything that he could just have a glass of water—_

"_Here," Ron grunted, shoving the glass into Harry's shaky fingers._

"_Think you can manage food?" Hermione asked gently and Harry nodded._

"_That sounds good, yeah." _

_Something was weighing on Hermione's mind, Harry knew. He was thankful when she disappeared from the room to get him food instead of nagging him about it though. His mind was still reeling from the fact that Tom Riddle—a small little __**twelve-year-old**__—had wandlessly cast an Unforgivable. That Tom had tried to force his own will upon Harry. Accidental magic still occurred past the age of eleven, Harry knew, but to cast the Imperius Curse and so effortlessly flatten the walls of iron will that Harry had built over the years... Tom was still far too young to exert any real pressure against Harry's will, but the fact remained that he had done it and __**accidentally**__, to boot._

_But then again, he'd always had that power, hadn't he? The ability to exert his will over other creatures. He had said as much to Dumbledore—"_I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them._"—so was it really a surprise that after getting some training, he could do it to people too? Tom's persuasive powers even at the age of twelve were nothing to be trifled with; a charmer, the Diary-Memory had referred to himself as. He was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it despite the others around him that feared him. Harry had seen as much in Slughorn's memory; smooth and careful and patient. Tom knew which cards to play to appeal to which people, and being so ridiculously smart—_

_Harry frowned, a strange weight pressing on his mind. Slughorn had been so quick to give up the information on the Horcruxes, and Harry was well aware of his penchant for collecting people, but… what was it that made him collect Tom? That made him so eager to whisper words that would make Tom Riddle very nearly indestructible and immortal? Yes, Tom was smart, but to garner such favoritism to the point of divulging some of the most dangerous and brutal secrets about magic? Horcruxes violated the most basic laws of nature, their creation based on the complete destruction of another soul… and Slughorn, despite his apprehensions, had willingly given this information away. Harry had never thought to ask before, and now that he was training to become an Auror, the chance had slipped away. Slughorn had been regretful, yes, but only in retrospect, only once Tom Riddle had become Lord Voldemort and his brutality fully realized. _

_That kind of dedication, that kind of __**trust**__ was not easily won. Favoritism, to the point of breaking school rules, Harry could understand. But the Horcruxes…_

_Hermione returned a few minutes later carrying ham and cheese sandwiches cut into neat little triangles stacked on a tray. Ron beamed at her, taking two and shoving the first in his mouth; Harry shifted his glass onto the side table, picking up a sandwich and nibbling on it absently. His mind was still a whir, so very distracted—_

"_Harry?" Hermione questioned, that same inquisitive look clouding her expression. Harry blinked at her, realized his stomach was screaming at him in hunger and shoved the sandwich into his mouth before grabbing another._

"_Yeah?" He asked around the bread._

"_Are you really feeling better?"_

_Harry swallowed. "Did you see something again?"_

_Hermione shot Ron a scathing look. "He mentioned that, did he? That certainly makes things simpler."_

_Harry rolled his eyes. _

"_I **saw** that," she said shortly. "I just wonder how seriously you're taking this. I can understand you hate Tom Riddle for everything he has done to you, but do you honestly think you're going to win any of his affection by throwing him against tables? He's only a __**child**__—"_

"_I know, Hermione," Harry snapped. Ron's face had gone sickly pale._

"_It's a bit sick, you know, that we're actively trying to gain Voldemort's __**affection.**__"_

_Harry didn't reply. He understood that feeling far too well. It was bad enough being Voldemort's enemy; being chased constantly, his life and the people he cared about threatened, theirs lives at risk… there had already been so much attention on Harry from everyone around him, but as Tom Riddle's own personal ghost… there was something to be said about Riddle being young and human and if having Voldemort's hatred directed towards him was bad, having Tom Riddle's full focus on him… having to look into those burning eyes with the knowledge that he was being purposefully deceitful… knowing that there was so much that could be destroyed with just a single misstep… _

_Riddle hated him. He had hated Harry from the moment Harry found out about his revenge against Billy Stubbs. Still, Harry had __**promised**__—and Tom, perhaps, had never been forced to be the full focus of anyone else, either. Harry wasn't quite sure what Riddle saw whenever Harry looked at him; was he accusing? Angry? Did Riddle see just how all-consuming his hate for Voldemort had been? Did Riddle see that it was difficult for Harry to face him, knowing how much sorrow he would cause in the future? Did Riddle even __**care?**_

_That was the problem, Harry knew. Discovering if Riddle cared. Even though he was a child, even though Riddle had shielded himself against others to keep them out, there was still so much potential for him to hurt. There had been no one, Harry knew, that actually cared about Tom for __**Tom.**__ His abilities and his blood, yes. His looks, perhaps. But his personality? Actually caring about Tom's personal pains and struggles and wanting him to be happy for the sake of being happy? Seeing Tom now, so furiously angry and trying so hard to prove himself, Harry knew that no one was ever given the chance. But then, Tom hadn't wanted them to. He didn't want others to have that much sway over him. He wanted to be strong and independent and on his own and—_

_He hated Harry for making that promise. For making him out to be weak. Tom didn't want anyone to save him. Most likely felt as though he didn't need it. But Harry would, regardless._

_And he'd have to be genuine._

_The thought twisted, coiling and threading through his ribs until there was a horrible pain pressing down around his lungs from all sides. _

_Genuine. Just as he wanted Tom to feel genuine affection, to understand what it meant to care and value human life—to make the adult decision and do what was right instead of what was easy __**because he understood—**_

"_I don't think I can do it," Harry said softly. _

_Hermione blinked at him. "Harry?"_

"_Make him care about me. Not when… I hate him, Hermione. How can I ask him to take a chance when all I want to do is hex him out of existence? I __**hate**__ him, Hermione, and he __**knows it.**__ He has to. He—"_

"_Is just a child," Hermione said sternly, setting her food aside. "Listen to me Harry. The Voldemort you killed and the Tom Riddle you're facing now are two very different people. Voldemort would have seen it for what it was, I have no doubts about that, but right now, all Tom Riddle sees is a ghost that sees fit to interfere in his life—that made a promise to save him and then leaves for long stretches of time without explanation. You're an inconsistency, Harry, and you don't get to spend a lot of time with him, either. You have to realize, this boy grew up in an orphanage with no parents and no friends. He has no one on his side and then the first person who claims to be is never around when he wants him to be."_

"_That's not Harry's fault," Ron pointed out, and Harry felt a rush of affection at the indignation in Ron's voice._

"_We know this," Hermione agreed. "But Riddle doesn't. He is __**just a child**__ and abandonment hurts, Ron. We're lucky Harry's had as much of an impact on him as he's had. Don't you see? Riddle's already __**attached**__ and he has no reason to be except for the fact that maybe, just secretly, he wants so badly to believe in the promise Harry made." Hermione paused, offering Harry a soft smile. "I'm not expecting you and Riddle to become the best of friends, Harry. I doubt that will ever happen. But at the end of this, I hope something changes enough to where hate will be unnecessary."_

_Ron crinkled his nose, frowning at nothing as he glanced back and forth between Hermione and Harry. "Does that mean we're going to get Harry to stay?"_

"_Stay?"_

_Ron shrugged. "Yeah, I mean, if it hurts so bad to be abandoned, then wouldn't it best to send Harry back, you know, permanently? Or at least until Voldemort can handle being alone without going on a Dark Arts frenzy."_

_Hermione eyed Ron speculatively for a long moment. "You're right, of course. Allowing Harry to go back only to stay for a few minutes before disappearing for an undetermined amount of time does more harm than good. But would he really be able to form any lasting bonds with Riddle as old as he is? Someone would think Harry grossly indecent for paying such close attention to a child. Add to that, Riddle is bound to be busy with classes and children his own age and I doubt he does anything of much significance until his sixth year at Hogwarts."_

_The reminder of the Chamber of Secrets was enough to have them all flinching. Harry could remember what Tom Riddle was like at sixteen quite clearly; handsome and charming, but viciously dark and violent under his calm facade of friendliness. Coming face to face with that Tom Riddle—one who manipulated effortlessly, without much thought—made his stomach churn. The very reason they were dealing with the child and not the teenager was __**because**__ he wore so much of his anger on his sleeve. A young Tom Riddle could hide, but not as effectively as he would have liked. Getting underneath his guard, allowing him to change… children were so impressionable, so easy to take advantage of and—Harry's stomach churned. Changing an eleven year old and renewing some of that old hope that had been lost was definitely easier because children wanted so badly to believe. But teenagers… by that age, Tom Riddle had already come to the conclusion that everything could be done without the help of others and if he needed others, well, they were merely tools to further advance his ambitions. As sick as it made him feel to manipulate a child, Harry preferred a young Tom Riddle to an older one. The teenager was already Voldemort by then. Harry wanted no part of that._

_Yet, he knew it would have to happen. Using Dumbledore's memories of Grindelwald had certainly helped, but changing Tom meant interfering when something significant happened, and the only thing of significance that could happen to Tom was—_

"_**Purebloods don't like half-bloods."**_

"_Merlin," Harry groaned, flattening his bangs down over his scar. "His father. I forgot. He already knows about his father."_

"_Wha?" Ron asked, nearly choking on his food. "What's his Dad have to do with anything?"_

"_Slytherin," Hermione agreed, frowning slightly. "Do you know when he started to guess?"_

_Harry shrugged. "I only found out—he hasn't told anyone that he's a Parselmouth yet, aside from Dumbledore, but he __**will**__ and then he'll make the connection to Slytherin and—"_

"_Students learn about the Unforgivables in fifth year," Hermione said quietly. "He kills his father at the end of his sixth, doesn't he? And he already knows about Slytherin because of the Chamber, but then he'll know for sure—the ring—and his first notion of the Horcruxes. He killed his father, so making the diary was easy—he felt it, I know, that there was something wrong with him—"_

"_It has to be permanent," Harry said, a sense of dawning horror stealing over him. "The next time I go to the past, I won't be coming back."_

"_No," Hermione agreed quietly, reaching out to grip Ron's hand tightly. He stroked her knuckles, his face pallid. "You won't."_

xXx_  
><em>

_Unusual, but not unheard of._

A strange choice of words. Very strange, because he had been asking if it was _normal._ And his first thought had been that it was just another thing to set him apart, place him higher, than those around him. It allowed him to be different—the good kind, because Tom was quite finished with the horrible kind, the different that made him a _freak_ and a _monster _and hated by children who could not understand his greatness. There had to be a reason for the comment. Thinking about it now, with Harry's quiet awe clotting his mind—he hadn't questioned the ghost before. He had trusted him, but only because Harry seemed to _know_, without a doubt, that Tom would be powerful. But the first time… he hadn't named Tom's unique ability. He had simply described it as 'talking-to-snakes.' Yet this time… Tom frowned, his fingers brushed against the edge of his textbook. Parselmouth, Harry had said. The ability to talk to snakes—Tom was a Parselmouth. He hadn't thought to question it when Harry had said it, despite the foreign sound to the word. He had been too wrapped up in his emotions, too wrapped up in Harry to even gauge what the older boy was talking about. And yet—

"Black," Tom said, throwing out a hand and catching the older girl by the sleeve. She sneered at him, but stilled; striking out against younger students was not proper, and something Tom used to his advantage. "What is a Parselmouth?"

Black blinked, taken aback. "What is a Parselmouth? You're a Slytherin and you don't even know that much?" She snorted, snatched her arm away from him. "A _Parselmouth_, Riddle, is someone who can talk to snakes."

Tom nodded slightly. "And it is an unusual gift."

"Of _course,_" she drawled, acidic and condescending. "Because only those of the _purest_ Wizarding blood—only those descended from Salazar Slytherin himself—possess such a rare and desired ability." Her gaze narrowed as she stared at Tom, her lips curling into a vicious sneer. "The little half-blood isn't trying to claim relation, is he? You're not—"

"You may leave," Tom answered softly, snapping his textbook closed and shoving it into his satchel. Black reared back at the forceful order, looking ready to attack—but Tom was already moving out of the Common Room and into the dark hallways, a thoughtful expression on his face.

_Unusual, but not unheard of, _Dumbledore had said.

_Only those descended from Salazar Slytherin himself possess such a rare and desired ability._

Claiming relation—Black had made sure to tell him not to claim relation, because half-bloods most certainly did _not_ have a stake in such power. And yet—his father was a Muggle. Tom had found out that much, at the very least. But his mother… the weak specimen of human life that had _died_ simply because she could not bear not having his father around… his father who had most likely abandoned them both without a thought… she was a witch. A witch whose picture he did have, by some lucky miracle. Yet her name—how sad it was, that although he had her face, he did not even have his own mother's _name._

The thought chaffed at him, clawed at him from the inside out leaving hot trails of vicious agony in its wake.

Harry hadn't been surprised when he said he was a half-blood. In fact, Harry had admitted to _knowing—_

What else did his own personal poltergeist know? Knowing that he was a half-blood, knowing about his _father_—surely it didn't mean—surely the other wizard couldn't _know—_but he had to. There was no denying it, especially with the quiet confidence with which Harry had _admitted _to knowing. It didn't matter how he came about the information, because Harry _knew. _

And Tom was certain if Harry knew about his Muggle father, then surely, Harry knew about his mother, _too._

Except.

Did it matter? Walburga Black had given him a most delicious piece of information, something that was changing Tom—something had awoken inside of him, bright and fiery and _alive_ and Tom cradled it, turning her words over and over in his head, tasting them from every which direction because—

_Only those descended from Salazar Slytherin himself possess such a rare and desired ability._

Tom could talk to snakes.

_The little half-blood isn't trying to claim relation, is he?_

No. He hadn't been. But maybe, just maybe, he _could. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Trying for Eden

**Summary: **The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

**Genre: **Angst, Drama, Horror, Romance, etc.

**Pairings: **HP/TMR, implied HG/RW, implied HP/GW, HP+RW bromance

**Warnings: **Slash, het, violence, minor gore, time travel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note: **Just a heads up: The children are going to be really cruel, really thoughtless, and take glee in something that was incredibly devastating and demoralizing to the British people and caused a vast amount of grief and loss of life. These thoughts do not reflect my own personal view on the matter, and I apologize to anyone who takes offense to what was written.

A line from this chapter was taken directly from page 707 of Deathly Hallows, American Version, hardcover.

xXx

There was a _Chamber_ somewhere in Hogwarts.

Tom's fingers skittered over the pages, eyes tracing the text hungrily as he read the same passage over and over. The fire lingered within him, burning more brightly each time his mind processed the information—a strange, invigorating euphoria erupted, thrumming constantly under his skin as he consumed the information before him.

Certainly, it was only a rumor. Yet Tom had spent enough time in the Wizarding World to know that some rumors were rooted in fact. After all, why would anyone bother writing about a secret chamber if one did not exist? Many people had claimed that the castle had been combed over, even the most magical of rooms, yet there was no discovery of a secret chamber to be found. Let alone one with a very dangerous monster.

How fascinating, Tom thought, that in addition to a chamber being rumored to exist, there was also a deadly, legendary monster which existed somewhere on Hogwarts grounds. There had to be fact somewhere in the jumbled mess of words he found in _Hogwarts, A History_. Technically speaking, it was very rare for any sort of monster or magical creature to live for over a thousand years—for if there was a monster placed within the chamber by Salazar Slytherin himself then it must've been hidden within the chamber since the school first opened.

Tom could remember, quite clearly, the song of the Sorting Hat. Four houses—representing four very different ideals—and despite the unity that came with opening a magical school, there was still one person who stood apart from the other three, one person who wanted and believed that there were to be... _special qualifications for the students who were to attend_ and Tom had been in Slytherin House long enough to know what, precisely, that had meant.

Blood purity.

Salazar Slytherin had only wanted pure-bloods to be in Slytherin House—those who were ambitious, bright, and cunning. Those were the personality traits he valued over all else. Slytherin wanted those who were made for greatness, who could use their ambition and push them above and beyond all the others, if only because they already _were_ greater than all the others.

They were, after all, _pure._

And, if many of his housemates were to be believed, they were _all_ purebloods.

So then why—

Tom pushed the thought away, unsure of whether he wanted to follow that train of thought. He knew there was weakness within his blood; his housemates had been certain to point it out, to explain just how much he had besmirched the name of Slytherin. To think, a _half-blood _(if only because Tom would not allow himself to be any less—he was a _wizard, _after all, and he knew, of course, that this meant that he was _better_—even as his housemates disparaged him, made him out to be less than what he was) being accepted into _Slytherin House._ It was almost unheard of. The constant thrum of _why-why-why_ was always cropping up, but Tom refused to think it, because if he thought it, it meant that he was _listening_, allowing himself to be _less—_

That was not acceptable.

The why, Tom thought, didn't matter. Riddle, he knew, was a Muggle name—filthy and foul and disgusting. The name Riddle had no place being in Salazar Slytherin's house. A _half-blood_ had no place being in Slytherin, yet Tom wasn't ignorant enough to believe that he was the only (maybe) half-blood to grace the Slytherin Common room. With the amount of inbreeding that continued to occur, the Wizarding population was dwindling; certainly, Wizards were not going extinct. New magic kept cropping up in the most unexpected places—mudbloods, his housemates whispered when the professors could not hear them, but that was the state of the world, especially with the _whispers _of a new Dark Lord—

His name was certainly Muggle. There was no questioning it. But wherever it had come from, it didn't matter. If his father was a Muggle, then it would only stand to reason that his mother was a witch. Yet even if she was a witch, it did not explain his abilities. Reading further, he had learned that, yes, Salazar Slytherin _was_ a Parselmouth, and had passed his rare and mysterious gift onto his descendants.

_Descendants._

Other families—_Dark Families—_the book read, had declared many times to have a child who was a Parselmouth, because it allowed them to claim relation to Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest wizards to have ever existed. Almost all the cases were fraudulent, of course, because when the time came for the child to be tested for such a rare and unique gift, no one could deliver. And yet—

Tom could talk to snakes.

Only those descended from Salazar Slytherin were Parselmouths.

_And I can talk to snakes._

Sweat broke out on the bridge of Tom's brow, his lips pursing as he stared at book in front of him, blind to the words on the page. The excitement grew tenfold, his long fingers curling against the pages as his breath quickened. There was no other explanation for it, no other way to explain why a child born in a Muggle Orphanage in the middle of London had one of the most coveted gifts of Wizard-kind.

It had to be his mother. His mother, despite being _dead_—and that strange, unexplainable feeling wormed its way throughout his chest once again, clawing at his insides as his breath quickened—had to have given him the gift. She had to have—it _had_ to be her, because there was _no other way—_

_Despite the many fraudulent claims of purebloods being born with the ability to speak Parseltongue, as well being descended from the great Salazar Slytherin, one of the four founders of Hogwarts, no true heirs have managed to be found. It seems, for all intents and purposes, that the line of Slytherin has in fact died out—_

Except it hadn't. Because Tom knew—_I'm a Parselmouth—_

"It's me," Tom whispered to himself, stroking the pages before him reverently. "I am the Heir of Slytherin."

_The little half-blood isn't trying to claim relation, is he? _Walburga Black had asked, condescending and hateful and so seemingly _superior _despite the fact that she wasn't.

Tom knew, in that moment, that he didn't _have_ to claim relation, because he _was_ a relation. He was the Heir of Slytherin. The thought was so strong, so heady, Tom refused to let it diminish as he devoured his triumph, soaking in the bright, overwhelming warmth that caused his skin to thrum and his eyes to glow. His face was flushed, he knew, and his breathing was rapid, but it didn't matter because he was more than just a half-blood, more than just an abandoned orphan, more than the riff-raff that his housemates claimed him to be and his mother left him to become. The blood that ran through his blood was special, even if it was half-diluted with filth, but it was powerful enough. Tom had seen his magic explode through the tip of his wand, had shown such exquisite control and quick learning that it made _sense—_descended from a Hogwarts founder, the greatest wizard of all _time—_

_And, _Tom thought, the curl of excitement coursing like poison through his veins, _he left me a secret Chamber._

Tom was going to find it.

xXx_  
><em>

_The memories tangled around the tip of his wand—holly, because no matter how comfortable Harry had been with Malfoy's wand, he had always liked his better—and he dropped them into the vial, watching the silver strands curl in on themselves and settle along the bottom like a deep liquid. Harry peered in the vial, that half-there, half-incomplete thought churning in his mind. He could feel the absence and it was nearly uncomfortable, but removing the memories was crucial. These were the memories he would keep safe, the memories that would protect him and, hopefully, be waiting for him when he returned from the past. _

_Harry's fingers curled around the vial as he sat on his three-legged stool; Ron was watching him, his lips pulled down into a frown as he helped Hermione draw the pentacle, chalk staining his freckled hands white. _

"_Have you finished then?" Hermione asked, sitting up on her knees and wiping sweat from her forehead. Bits of drying candle wax caked the sleeves of her robes and crisscrossed the floor in thin, broken lines. There was even a spot on her face, Harry noticed. He wondered when she would get around to rubbing it off. _

"_Er," Harry said, avoiding her gaze, "yeah."_

"_Good," Hermione said, reaching over and grabbing another stubby candle from the table. "I'll enchant it once we're finished with this."_

_Harry nodded numbly, unable to respond. He palmed the vial, felt the glass go warm in his hands. A strange feeling had settled in the bottom of his stomach, one that had been present since he first gathered the first strands of the memory on the end of his wand. It wasn't quite defeat, but it wasn't resignation either. Harry wasn't sure why he was so bothered by it, but staring at the memory, watching as it rippled like water at the bottom of the vial, Harry could feel it growing. It was reaching up, skimming and pressing against his chest, making it so difficult to __**breathe—**_

_He didn't want to go. The thought of leaving made him physically ill; spending so much time in the past, attempting to win Tom Riddle's trust... Harry had warred with himself over this so many times since he had reached that final conclusion and the knowledge that he could change things wasn't making leaving any easier._

You brave boy, _Dumbledore had said to him once, beaming proudly in the white haze of an almost-death, _you wonderful, wonderful man.

_These words were not nearly as comforting as Harry would have liked them to be._

"_Right," Hermione said after a long moment, "let's have it then."_

_Harry forced back a sigh, coming to his feet. Hermione stood poised just outside the pentacle, shoes skimming the lines of wax on the floor. Ron remained on the floor, hands leaving streaks of this white against the black of his robes. Something twisted inside of Harry, something vaguely unpleasant and familiar, but he ignored it, instead focusing on handing Hermione the small vial of memories._

"_Do you have everything?" Hermione questioned, taking the vial from him._

"_Yes."_

_Some of what he was feeling must have shown through in his voice, because Hermione glanced at him sharply. "Harry—"_

"_Leave him alone, Hermione," Ron said suddenly. "You can't expect him to happy about this, can you? Imagine how you would feel if you had were the one that had to go back and live with __**Voldemort.**__"_

_Hermione shot Ron a scathing look. "I'm very much aware of how Harry must be feeling," Hermione snapped, tapping her wand against the stopper. A smooth, vaguely gray light engulfed the vial—for a moment, Harry was caught in resentment, hating the lack of color in his world, but the feeling disappeared quickly as Hermione placed the vial of memories back in his hand. Her expression had softened, her brown eyes shining wetly. Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably, slipping the vial of memories into the pouch pressed against his chest. _

"_Harry, you know one of us could go instead—"_

"_No," Harry said firmly. "I need to be the one—even before, it's always been me."_

_Hermione frowned. "You have to tell us what you're feeling, Harry. If you don't want to go..."_

"_I..." Harry paused, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. "It's just easier, I think, when you know you can come back."_

_Hermione's eyes tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her hands trembled by her sides as they curled into fists, and for a moment, Harry was struck dumb with awe at the depth of his friend's emotions. Ron stood swiftly, moving across the room to grip Hermione's hands. They unfurled slowly, unwillingly, and Ron slid his fingers through hers, holding onto her tightly. There was a moment when no one said anything—Hermione continued to stare Harry down, her gaze causing waves of frustration and guilt to course through him unrepentantly. His fingers tingled as he watched her, saw the light color the contours of her face in the constant gray-gray-gray that continuously enveloped his world. _

_He wasn't supposed to be afraid. Even now, Harry couldn't understand why the irrational fear gripped him, why it was so hard to just __**continue—**_you brave boy, _Dumbledore had said in the white haze, and Harry tried his best to forget that Dumbledore even __**existed. **__He couldn't deal with that memory, couldn't have it haunting him. _

Dangerous things happen to those who meddle with time, _Hermione had told him once, long ago. He believed it; saw through the danger every time he opened his eyes. Yet the good was supposed to outweigh the bad. The repercussions had been spreading, but that wasn't the __**point.**__ The point was—Harry jerked, his hands twitching as he stared at his friends. He didn't want to do it, go back in time. Remain __**stuck**__ there. It wasn't a lack of trust in Hermione, Harry knew. He trusted her more than anything, knew with every fiber of his being that Hermione would find a way to bring him back. Would find a way to save him, no matter what the cost. But what if—_

"_Of course it's easier," Hermione said at length, snatching her hands away from Ron after reveling in his warmth. The red-head scowled at her. "But Harry, you __**promised.**__"_

_Harry jerked, his eyes flashing as he glared at his friend. Hermione flinched slightly, her chin quivering as she glowered back._

"_Hermione," Ron said cautiously, "maybe we should—"_

"_**No,**__" Hermione said sharply. "I find it ironic," she continued, eyes flashing as she took in the both of them, "how a couple of months ago you were so determined to go on, to change things, but now you can't even—"_

"_I said it was easier," Harry said furiously, doing his best to ignore the guilt. "Not that I wouldn't do it."_

"_I just don't think you understand—"_

"_I understand just fine!" Harry bellowed, startling Hermione into stumbling back. Guilt clawed at his chest, funneled deep within him, but the frustration was stronger. He could feel the weight of the memory pressing down on him, kept hidden in the inconspicuous pouch, the vial enchanted to be unbreakable. The liquid swirled within it, waiting, but the memories within his head trickled through the absence vaguely. It was, Harry thought as his whole body thrummed in discontent, disconcerting._

"_You don't have to yell at her," Ron said lowly, gaze darting between Harry and Hermione, half-panicked. _

"_I didn't—"_

"_I get it, mate," Ron said, face tense as he clapped Harry hard on the shoulder. His chalk-dusted fingers skittered forward, poking at the pouch hanging limply from around Harry's neck. "But we knew before we started, yeah?"_

"_We're going to follow you, you know," Hermione said gently. Harry looked at her and immediately felt his skin growing hot with shame. She stood a few paces away from him, her hand pressed firmly against her chest. Feeling her heartbeat, willing herself to calm down. Her jaw was clenched tight, her eyes narrowed but wet. Pink dusted her cheeks, but whether it was from her badly repressed anger or embarrassment from being frightened, Harry wasn't sure. He couldn't remember a time when Hermione had ever been frightened of him. The thought settled uncomfortably in his stomach. Harry felt ill._

"_Hermione's right," Ron agreed._

"_You won't be alone, Harry. I __**promise.**__"_

_The guilt that had been haunting Harry for weeks increased tenfold. He tried to ignore it, tried to morph it into something less debilitating and more useful—he wanted the determination he was used to, the determination Hermione accused him of possessing in spades, months earlier—but found it too difficult. There were too many thoughts in his head, too many doubts, too many things he should have forgotten about, but couldn't..._

You brave boy, _Dumbledore had said forever ago, and Harry wished, more than anything, that he could take it back. Make time rewind. This would be so much easier if he could._

"_Sorry," Harry said quietly._

_Hermione gazed at him for a moment more, her hands fluttering away from her chest. "It's Ginny, isn't it? I thought something—you've been acting odd, ever since your birthday. What happened?"_

"_I did something stupid," Harry said, unable to meet her eyes, "but it's not important."_

"_I noticed you'd been avoiding her, since we've started, but I didn't think... Harry, it's okay, you know, to miss her. I just think—"_

"_I __**don't**__," Harry said forcefully, earning a baleful look from Ron. "And even if I did, she won't have time to miss me, so let's just get on with it."_

"_**Harry**__," Hermione started pleadingly._

"_Leave it alone, Hermione," Ron ordered once again, effectively cutting off whatever else she was going to say. "It's Harry's right."_

_With a sinking sense of dread and relief, Harry strode forward, over the pentacle and towards a table littered with thick rolls of parchment, quills, and half-empty vials. He scooped up one settled neatly in its wooden perch—the glass felt warm in his palm, the memory thick in its presence. It was another memory of Grindelwald, one which they didn't know the exact time it occurred but had a vague idea of where it might lead. The anchor had yet to be placed, but the phantom whisper of the Horcrux—or, rather, the feeling behind it—was enough to cast the spell which would lead Harry to Tom Riddle. He turned, green eyes flashing in discomfort; Ron had gripped Hermione's hands once more, his fingers brushing over her knuckles in a gesture of comfort._

_Hermione bit her lip as she caught Harry's eye and nodded. "Right," she started, smiling tremulously at Ron. "Let's begin then."_

_Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket and strode to the eastern most point of the pentacle. She waited outside, gesturing for Ron to take his place opposite her. Harry glanced at the memory and felt a twinge of doubt but promptly squashed it down, Dumbledore's words ringing in his head—_You brave boy. You wonderful, wonderful man.

_He could do it, Harry knew. Was perfectly capable of going back in time and interacting with Tom Riddle. It would be difficult and trying and Harry would have to pull on every single thread of strength to simply __**hold back—**__(_fingers scrabbled at second-hand cloth, sinking into the fabric, twisting and pulling until the boy was at eye level, his sides slamming brutally into the heavy cherry wood table)—_but he knew he could do it. He had done it the first time when he caught Tom standing beneath the rafters smiling maliciously, eyes bright with glee and triumph as the rabbit stuck to the ceiling. A testament, Harry knew, to anyone who would ever try to hurt Tom again. He had held back in the beach house, watching as Tom's thoughts spiraled out of control, as he thought of ways to __**hurtpunishcontrol**__ the children who continuously ridiculed him, calling him names that no child deserved to hear. Harry had even managed to hold back his dislike in the aftermath of Riddle's meeting with Dumbledore—he had even allowed Tom to __**hold his hand.**_

_Harry knew he possessed the strength. He could handle Tom Riddle, could control his temper. Hermione had been the one to tell him, after all. He didn't need to __**like**__ Tom. He just couldn't __**hate**__ him. He needed to... learn more about him. Become familiar with him. Harry had come to this conclusion weeks ago. If Tom Riddle were to trust Harry, then Harry knew he would have to make the first step. He would have to be the one to break down the barriers of hate, tear his own preconceived notions to shreds so that he could start over with a clean slate. He would have to take the first step, open himself up completely and make it known that he could be trusted. That he was on Tom's side, no matter what. He would have to be genuine._

_It was strange, standing at the northern most point of the pentacle, waiting for Ron to take his place. His entire body thrummed with anticipation; Harry was familiar with the spell, had each motion burned into his muscle memory. He didn't even need to say the words; the spell whispered across his mind, poised on the tip of Hermione's tongue as Ron finally stepped up to the outside of the pentacle._

_Like a well choreographed dance, Hermione and Ron stepped over the lines of the thick lines on the floor, their wands extended outwards. Harry pulled the stopper from the vial; with a well synchronized movement they wove their wands through the air in an intricate pattern. He waited, feeling the brush of the spell as it swept through the air, filling the center of the pentacle with a strong, pulsing light. Hermione and Ron whispered the words, eyes narrowed in concentration, lips barely moving..._

_Harry stepped forward._

_The magic pulsed against him and the vial in his hands grew hot. He waited, feeling the air grow warmer and the crackle of electricity against his skin. With a swift movement he pulled his wand from his pocket and touched it to his chest. The tip of his wand lit up, the threads of the anchor sinking into him with a violent heave. He could feel it stretching, reaching out to find the presence on the other end—cold and thick and filthy, and how strange, Harry thought, that Tom was already making him feel so ill, making his stomach churn as the air began to rend before him, twisting and turning and __**splitting**__—_

_Harry tipped the vial._

_The memory caught against his fingers, curling and tangling around his knuckles. Hermione's wand movements had grown bigger, the magic emitting from her wand sending huge shocks of electricity through the air. Opposite her, Ron mimicked the movement, the jolts of electricity ricocheting off his wand and back towards her. The lights dazzled Harry's eyes—bright, sparking lights that sunk deep into the back of his retinas—and the air shifted once again, oozing a thick black void. _

_The memory burned into his fingers, scarring his skin in a wide, jagged pink line._

_Harry knew what he had to do differently this time. Before, he had merely need to place his memory scarred hand against the blackness of the rift and force his consciousness through. Hermione and Ron would continue their mesmerizing movements, doing what they could to keep the rift open, but even Harry knew that they wouldn't be able to do it for long. Once they grew too weak—and Ron, Harry noted, was always the one to give the cue—they would jerk their wands in the direction of the rift, zipping it closed from bottom to top. Merely pushing his essence forward had been easy. But forcing himself fully into the void, pushing his mind and body so far in as to make himself fade... the quiet hum of fear continued to prickle under his skin as he thought of Ron and Hermione, of the changed future. _

It could even undo our friendship, _Ron had said when Harry first went to the past. That they even knew—that they were aware of what could happen and __**still**__ wanted to continue... Harry's throat tightened and his resolve strengthened; the weight of the memories against his chest was heavy and discomfiting. He only hoped they would last. He only hoped they wouldn't disappear, slowly dissolving into nothing as his new memories appeared. Memories of a new life, a new way of living. The Wizarding world was dying, Harry knew. And despite his fear, despite the way he wanted to step away from the rift and ignore his decisions, Harry knew, more than anything, why he was doing this._

_The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. Even if it lost him Ron and Hermione, even if he couldn't call the Burrow a home or hold Teddy in his arms or watch Neville sink his hands into the cool of the dirt and uproot a Mandrake, he would continue down his path. He would confront Tom Riddle and break down his shields and show him what it meant to be good. That he __**could**__ be good._

I'm going to save you, _Harry said. And he meant it. Felt the promise down to very marrow of his bones, felt it resonate against the anchor, pulled taunt and vibrated as it sunk even deeper into the pit of his being. His chest heaved slightly, the memory scarring his knuckles even further._

Now or never, _Harry thought, sparing one last glance towards his friends._

_Ron grimaced, shooting another bolt of energy towards Hermione. Hermione caught it, allowing it to ricochet off her wand and into the air. The rift opened wider. Blood spilled from Hermione's nose._

_Harry didn't wait; he turned and jumped, crashing face first into inky blackness._

xXx

Fire. His body was on _fire._

_This must be what hell feels like, _Harry thought, because he remembered death and it wasn't nearly so agonizing. Heat soaked his limbs, causing his nerve-endings to twinge rapidly; pain receptors relayed his aches, transporting it from his brain and to each part of his body, allowing his limbs to throb with agonizing heat. His temples pulsed, hard and fast and Harry could feel his stomach twisting and pushing to dry-heave. His fingers curled against the ground beneath him—pebbled, he thought absently, the gravel scratching uncomfortably at the pads of his fingers—but no matter how much he thought to get up, it was as if a ton of bricks had been placed over his body, pressing him further and further into the earth.

His throat felt raw and dry; his eyes were gummy. He could feel the painful press of his glasses against the bridge of his nose, the weight of the metal frames squeezing the sides of his head. Shifting slightly, Harry took stock of his body; he wiggled his toes, felt spikes of pain dig deep into the meat of his calves and groaned. He didn't think it was supposed to be like this. Even through the thick fog of pain, Harry knew the spell wasn't supposed to work like that. At least, Hermione had said that nothing would happen, but after a moment of struggling to inhale cool air into his burning lungs, Harry knew that it didn't matter what was _supposed_ to happen, but rather, what _did_ happen.

_Right, _Harry thought, heaving another aching breath. _No moving. Eyes first._

Blinking through the thick crust that lined his eyelids, Harry peered through the cracked lens of his glasses and up into the sky. A shroud of dust hovered in the air, small pebbles raining down on his face and clinking against his glasses. Beyond it, he could see the night sky, stars drowned out by the bright illumination of raging fires. A flicker of terror came alive in his chest, wriggling about and forcing shallow, half-panicked breaths to escape him. His ears felt hot, buzzing with deafness and Harry could only stare up at the sky, the muscles in his neck cramping uncomfortably.

Fingers twitching, Harry forced himself to breathe deeper, urging himself not to panic. Slowly, so very slowly, he pressed his arms against and hoisted himself up, body screaming as his ribs rubbed together painfully and the pressure in his head pulsing a horrifyingly painful staccato beat...

There was rubble everywhere. Buildings stood half-erect, partially destroyed and crumbling. Black soot smeared the walls in great bursts of darkness, glass shattered and sprinkling the ground in dusty little shards. Fire licked along jagged planes of wood, sending a gray haze of illumination into the night. Harry blinked, his arm trembling as he lifted it to his face and rubbed at his eyes. Fragments of rocks dug into the skin of his knuckles and eyelids and Harry cursed, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

Pain throbbed deep in his legs again and Harry huffed out a shaky breath, opening his eyes a sliver to peer down at his feet—

—and promptly threw up.

His stomach twisted as bile worked its way up his throat and spattered against the rubble strewn ground. He felt hot beads of liquid stick to his skin and another painful spasm had him forcing a hand to his mouth, trying to swallow back his sickness. The taste of bile was sour on his tongue, stinging his throat and the flesh of his cheeks. His chapped lips tingled with the unpleasant hurt of stomach fluids on cracked skin.

Heaving a deep breath, Harry tried to slow his heart down, forcing himself not to think about what he had seen. His legs were—his legs had been... the pressure in his head increased tenfold, and he could feel the ache at the base of his neck, but it was _nothing_ compared to the fire in his legs, the agonizing sticky _wetness_, the sudden feeling of brick on muscle on bone and Harry had to resist the urge to vomit all over again. The queasy roil of his stomach wasn't distraction enough—he could feel the insistent throbbing, heavy and debilitating and relentless and Harry pressed his hands to head, seeing white dots dancing about behind his eyelids in a mockery of illness.

_Breathe, _Harry thought, his ragged breaths forcing his ribs to rub together with each unpleasant inhale. But the more Harry tried to breathe, the more he realized his world was tilting on its axis—there was just too much _pain_ and his legs were—_don't think about it, _Harry thought, swallowing down a bubble of panic, but the image flashed behind his eyelids, seared into his mind with a gory violence that made his stomach heave once more.

His throat burned as he took in another shaky, shallow breath and he could feel his fingers starting to tremble. The muscles of his back were tight, straining in an effort to keep him upright, and suddenly, Harry could feel the flush of heat near his face, so so _hot—_

Harry opened his eyes, his body giving great excruciating spasms. He looked at his legs—two, long limbs outstretched before him, half-hidden under the crush of what Harry imagined was brown-red brick. Sticky blood soaked the fabric of his jeans, the denim shredded in long stripes up to his thighs. The brick was sunken into his flesh, torn and mangled under the heavy slab of stone. His blood was spotted which tiny dark chunks of rubble, oozing from the deep wounds and congealing against the heavy rock. Harry's breath caught in his throat, strangling him... the heat was receding now, huge chills of cold prickling against his skin... he could feel his stomach heaving...

Suddenly, through cold blanket of pain that had settled into his bones, Harry felt something sink deep inside of him, increasing the pressure on his chest and _pulling—_

With the force of a supernova, stars exploded in front of his eyes as Harry latched onto the sickly connection—the slimy touch of _anger-hate-innocence_ caused a shudder to run down his spine—and felt himself collapse into the strangle-hold of magic, its claws dipping into the fiery agony of his crushed limbs.

Harry blacked out.

xXx

Tom frowned, his long fingers tapping against the corner of his essay. Ink beaded at the tip of his quill and Tom watched, bored, as it dropped and splattered against the off-white sheet, black rippling outwards and spider-webbing in the thick roll of sheep skin before him.

Tom sighed.

Dipping his quill back into its inkwell, Tom leaned back in his seat, staring resolutely at the ink dot. His fingers dipped absently into the pocket of his robes, searching instinctively for his wand. It thrummed at his touch, warm and responsive and magnificent. The same heady intoxication he always felt when his wand slipped into his hand flushed his skin warm—no matter how many times he did it, regardless of the fact that he had his wand for nearly two years now, the feeling never changed. Pulling his wand from his pocket, Tom regarded it quietly, his lips curving into a small grin—already, he had learned so much magic. Already, he could see himself excelling and rising above his classmates.

His teachers were always thrilled. His spell work was always impeccable and flawless, always above reproach. There was very little to correct him on, very little in the way of challenging him. Tom felt incredibly smug with the knowledge that he was better than all the students, that everything just came to him so _naturally—_everyday, he heard his dorm mates complaining about their workload, about how learning certain charms or hexes were just _too difficult, _and Tom felt his triumph sink down to the very marrow of his bones.

_I think you'll be a great wizard, _a half-forgotten voice whispered in his head, and Tom's entire body alighted warmth.

He was better than great. Tom knew that now. Knew it with every single fiber of his being. The revelation still resonated within him, his heart raced with the ever constant hum of _knowing—the heir of Slytherin, _Tom thought, drunk and proud and finally, finally _validated_—

But then the aggravation began to bubble beneath the surface of his skin, because no matter how validated he felt, the fact remained that weeks had passed since his ancestral discovery and he had yet to be able to locate the Chamber. A fury the color of liquid poison coursed through him and Tom scowled at the parchment before him. It was supposed to be easy. With all the childish and unrealistic expectations that came with such _knowledge_, Tom thought that finding the Chamber was going to be simple. He was Slytherin's Heir, after all. He held the most covetous gift in his blood, knew within the depths of very soul that the Chamber was left _for him_ and yet...

Nothing. Not a whisper, not a word, not a clue...

But there had to be a way. There had to be some way in which he could find that secret chamber, see the legacy which had been left to him by birthright. And then, of course, there was the monster...

Maybe that's where he should have started, Tom thought absently, reaching forward and smearing the blot of ink against the parchment. Perhaps, if he had some indication of what type of monster rested in the secret chamber, then he would have a better clue of where to start. Still, the knowledge that nothing could stay alive for over a thousand years was bouncing around in his head, leaving a strange sticky trail of _thought _behind, one which caused Tom's shoulders to tighten and his mouth to press down in a flat, unimpressed line. He couldn't think about it, not with the way his heart began to race and skin started to wet with a thin coating of sweat.

It was _too_ _much_.

Swallowing reflexively, Tom's fingers gave a spasm around his wand, and he stuffed it back into his pocket. Blinking, he pulled his essay closer to him, lifting his quill from its ink-pot and pressing it into the parchment. Four and a half feet on how to defend oneself against pixies—which was ridiculous, Tom thought, because although they were rude, mischievous little creatures, there was nothing remotely terrifying about them. Even so, Tom continued to produce line after line of information, drawn into the comforting haze that came with the sound of his quill scratching the surface of his parchment. It eased his thoughts and calmed his frustration until the only thing left was thought—thoughts of pixies, of defensive spells to use against the rather harmless creatures...

"Mr. Riddle," a voice said through the haze, sometime later. Jerking slightly, Tom glanced up, his annoyance spiking as he stared at the librarian before him.

"Yes?"

"The library is closing now," she said softly, gazing down at him with something akin to vague affection. "You worked right through dinner."

Tom glanced towards one of the windows, unsurprised to see the lamps lit and darkness streaming through the glass. Shrugging absently, he reached forward and capped his inkwell, taking care to roll up his parchment so as not to smudge anymore ink. After collecting his books, he stood and offered the librarian a polite smile.

"Madam."

"Off with you," the librarian replied, shooing him away.

Tom inclined his head politely before turning on his heel and walking through the double doors—the torches were lit all along the corridors, black wells of shadows stretching along the flagstone and being chased away by the flickering lights. Students milled along the hallways, making the slow progression to their Common Rooms.

A chill had permeated the dungeons, the damp, repugnant air causing Tom's chest to tighten. He followed a slow trickle of Slytherins down the corridors and into their Common Room entrance, his fingers brushing absently over the cool slab of wall as it slid shut behind him. The Common Room was bright, the roar of the fire in the hearths sending a warm wave of heat sluicing through the air. Students crowded around the fire, seated in plush couches and armchairs, laughing and smiling and chatting amiably. Sconces along the walls were lit, chasing away shadows and helping to flush the other student's faces with a calm radiance that was usually absent.

Tom stared at everyone, a strange well of unease prickling lightly against his skin. His fingers tightened on the strap of his book bag and he remained still, eyes narrowing at the sight before him.

"Hey Tom!" Someone called, and Tom resisted the urge to jerk in annoyance at the sound of his name. Turning to aim a look of polite disinterest, Tom noticed it had been Lestrange who called him out—he was waving about madly, the Prophet clutched in his hands, and Tom had to bite back the urge to snarl at him.

"Yes?"

"There was another air raid!" He burst out, collapsing into laughter a moment later. Around him, other students their age broke down in hushed laughter, glancing uneasily between the two. The sick feeling returned, as Tom stared, his eyes intent on the pure _joy_ which lined all their faces. It was fascinating, Tom thought, that something so utterly Muggle in nature could cause such a rush of happiness. Tom didn't understand it. All he could feel was the thick sludge inside of him, twisting and turning until his body started to shake and his chest started to heave. There was another air raid. The Germans hadn't stopped. A cool pressure was descending on him, closing in on all sides, suffocating him. Tom's hand twitched around the strap of his bag, because if there was another air raid, it meant that more people had _died—_

Tom clenched his jaw, focused on Lestrange so intently that it hurt.

"They're destroying themselves, these Muggles," an older girl replied, glancing at her nails absently. "Mummy says—"

"_Mummy!_" Lestrange howled in laughter again. "Oh, oh. But it gets even better. They're _evacuating the children. _As if... as if that..."

"You know," Tom said softly, shoulders tense and painfully tight, "someone would surely wonder at the extent of your joy over this matter."

Lestrange snickered, staring at Tom with bright eyes. "Sorry," he replied, sounding anything but. "I just can't help but wonder. Do they evacuate orphans too?"

A moment of silence passed, long and painful and stretching into infinity. Numbness pricked at Tom, taunting him—_Do they evacuate orphans, too?—_and then—

His fury _exploded._

Tom's whole body lurched, his face hot and red as he stared at Lestrange, his hand immediately sweeping to plunge into his pocket. Blood pounded through his veins, adrenaline helping to fuel his anger like a heady poison—Lestrange froze, body completely still as Tom pinned him to the spot with the force of his anger. Tom could hear everyone fall silent, the sudden quiet slamming into Tom's head with the force of a wrecking ball. For a long moment, no one said or did anything. Tom could feel his wand humming in conjunction with the fury inside of him, stretching taut and filling him to the very brim...

"Are you daft?" Walburga Black suddenly piped up, sweeping forward and slapping Lestrange on the side of the head. "He's the _Heir of Slytherin, _you bumbling idiot!"

"I'm sorry," someone else said, a tad breathlessly, tucking his arm around Lestrange's shoulders. "My cousin, he's not thinking right. I'll just—"

"Of course," Tom said colorlessly, face blank and body coiled tight as two of the older students ushered Lestrange to the other side of the Common Room. The room buzzed with the deafening silence, but Tom could still feel the fury, could still feel it roiling within him. He felt sick with anger, sick with the desire to simply _punish—_an absent half-thought filled his head, one which reminded him of what he had done to the other orphans, so many times before... Lestrange deserved to be punished, deserved to understand what it _meant_ to insult Tom Riddle, to insult the _Heir of Slytherin_—

His mind flashed back to the agonized squeal of the rabbit, flailing madly as he strangled it. Back to the overwhelming force of his magic as it crushed every ounce of will that blossomed in Amy Benson's and Dennis Bishop's head. He remembered the cave—cold and wet and frightening, but allowing their screams to reverberate off the walls and bounce around in his head like some sort of hymn as they _learned their place_—

Lestrange would too, Tom realized, the sticky touch of triumph clinging to him pleasantly. He had been careful since he arrived at Hogwarts, remembering Dumbledore (_Albus Dumbledore is the deputy headmaster of Hogwarts. It'd be best to just listen to what he says. You'll make less trouble that way, _a vague, half-remembered voice whispered to him). Remembering Dumbledore's warning. Tom's whole body had gone rigid as he returned his trophies, his undeniable _proof_ that he was stronger and better and _more_ than _anything_ those other children ever aspired to be. And Lestrange—the other students remembered, Tom recalled with pleasure, just who he was. The Heir of Slytherin. The very person they yearned to be with every fiber of their being. They apologized to him, and even through the anger, even through the desire to _hurt-punish-harm _Tom knew that was important. Knew that it _meant something. _

Tom paused, marveling at the warmth of his wand against his palm.

Lestrange had forgotten his place. Had forgotten that Tom was better.

Tom would make sure he remembered.

xXx

The promise of revenge hung about Tom, his eyes alight with his excitement. Turning away from the other students, he headed towards the dormitory, wondering. Being at Hogwarts, knowing magic, it had allowed for him to learn so many spells. It was better than the _want-want-want_ that came with the punishment of the other orphans—pure desire had been what allowed Tom to get his revenge, and he knew, even now, that although he couldn't _control_ it before, he still retained some measure of control over the magic. Or, at least, the direction he wanted his magic to take. If he wanted to hurt people, Tom had been able to make them hurt. If he wanted to control them, he could make them do what he wanted. _Like Amy and Dennis, _his mind supplied, and a smile curled his lips, cruel and bright and manic.

He still hadn't forgotten the heady weight of that victory. Amy and Dennis hadn't said anything afterwards, no matter how much Mrs. Cole had badgered them—that, Tom knew, was what made Mrs. Cole try even harder to get him into an asylum, to get him out of the orphanage. A cold fury began to work its way inside of Tom again at the thought of Mrs. Cole, at the thought that—

_But it didn't happen, _Tom remembered, forcing himself to calm, _suspected, but not caught. As always. _

And here, in a castle full of hundreds of other children... giddy delight erupted within him, because he _wouldn't even be suspected—_

Tom needed a plan. He needed his punishment to be clever, needed to make sure that no one could point to him. He wasn't sure whether the other Slytherins would say anything. Ever since his ability to talk to snakes had been revealed, they had been... different, Tom thought, unable to place his finger on just _how_ they acted. Nicer. They were... Tom wasn't sure. He just knew that they were _something_, that their immediate apology following Lestrange's horrible misstep meant _something_ and Tom decided that, following Lestrange's punishment, he would find out what it was. It nagged at his mind, an insistent thought, one that slipped through his fingers like smoke, frustrating him the longer he tried to capture it. It was important. Just another discovery waiting to fall neatly into his grasp.

Reaching the dormitory, Tom pushed the door open, walking to his bed and dropping his book bag on the top of his trunk. Toeing his shoes off, Tom stretched out on his bed, picking at the corner of his pillow case. He could want to punish Lestrange all he wanted, but to do it in such a way that none of the professors could implicate him... that would be difficult. He had to be much cleverer than them, and although Tom knew that it was possible with the way the professors seemed caught up in their own little world—their own little veil of fear, with the way things were escalating—the thought was nearly daunting. And yet...

The prospect of being able to accomplish such a feat was too much for Tom to leave alone. He would try to do it simply to see just how far he could go. Just how much could he get away with? Just how much would the other students let him get away with? Just how much—

_Pain._

That single, inexplicable thought cut brutally across Tom's recollections as something collided with him, the air leaving his lungs in one, painful rush. He scrabbled against his bed sheets, the sudden excruciating _agony_ making him want to scream, to flail and cry and vomit and _beg_—

With a monumental effort Tom wasn't aware he possessed, he pitched himself off the side of the bed, feeling the pain thin into a dull wave. He breathed heavily, erratically, his pulse jumping against the underside of his wrist and throbbing in his neck. His forehead had slicked with sweat in the few... seconds? Minutes? Tom wasn't sure, but it couldn't have been _long—_and the sickening thought was roiling around in his mind once again, pinning him to the floor with an ice cold terror he had experienced only a few times before. Struggling to right himself, Tom pushed himself upwards, his arms the consistency of jelly. Pins and needles speared the thick of his calves and Tom grimaced, the foul taste of bile coating the back of his throat. He glanced towards his bed, completely and utterly confused as to what exactly had _happened—_

Tom froze, his throat closing in terrified disbelief.

It was—

_Harry._


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **Trying for Eden

**Summary: **The first time Tom met Harry, there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

**Genre: **Angst, Drama, Horror, Romance, etc.

**Pairings: **HP/TMR, implied RW/HG, implied HP/GW

**Warnings: **slash, het, minor gore, time-travel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

A line in this chapter was taken directly from page 699 of DH as well as from page 273 of HBP. American version, hardcover.

xXx

And yet it couldn't be.

Harry was—well, not real. An active part of his imagination come to haunt him. A gray specter flush with color—even through the horror, Tom could remember his eyes. Bright and green, shining through the glass of his round spectacles. Transparent, but firm. Tom remembered reaching forward and touching his hand, feeling the warmth of Harry's skin pressed against his palms when he cradled the older boy's face. He also remembered the fury—the way Harry's fingers sunk into robes, lifting Tom from his feet and slamming him into the solid cherry wood tables of the library.

Yes, Harry had been real and there but... not. Tom had almost forgotten as time passed. Tom had _tried_ to forget him despite the niggling remembrances that seeped into his mind like infectious pus. Harry's words and actions had woven throughout Tom settling into him as if they belonged there. Every time Tom considered Harry, he felt that furious anger working its way through him. Tom felt—not hurt, because Tom didn't know what hurt felt like—but something. Something other than anger. Something that twisted deep inside of him because he knew that Harry was _his _and his alone and yet Harry was never around when Tom thought he should be.

So Tom had tried to forget.

Tom had, for a moment. Had been caught up in the rush of his excitement concerning his heritage, had felt himself glow with the knowledge that there was a secret chamber hidden somewhere in the school; always, there was something keeping his mind occupied, allowing him to forget that there was a specter somewhere, wanting to _save him._

And he was back.

But—it couldn't be him. Tom _remembered._ Harry was a ghost.

And this... this _wasn't._

Shakily, Tom rose to his feet to peer down at the person on his bed with a half-horrified awe. The boy that looked like Harry was deathly pale, his face ashen and covered with the thick glisten of sweat. His glasses were cracked, a thin coating of dust dirtying the lenses. Blood crusted his dark hair, coppery stains streaking the side of the boy's face. Tiny pebbles dotted his skin, tiny lacerations fighting to remain pink against the sickly gray of his face. His lips were chapped, peeling, and little lines of blood streaked the curve of his mouth in intricate little lines. Further down—and here, Tom could only describe what he had seen as _horror—_Harry's legs were mangled, blood seeping black into roughly torn denim. Bits of flesh were torn apart, the off-white bone protruding from the deep gouges in Harry's limbs. The pink-white of muscles looked jagged and torn and—

Unable to look any longer, Tom tore his gaze away. His lungs ached as he took in deep, steadying breaths and the under of his arms felt wet with moisture. Grimacing, Tom pulled off his robe and tossed it onto his trunk, his arms shaking with the effort to move.

It couldn't be Harry, Tom knew. Harry was a ghost. He wasn't flesh and blood, but something that was insubstantial yet _there. _Tom remembered. And yet...

Inching forward, Tom extended a hand. His stomach heaved as he placed it against not-Harry's slick skin, the clammy cold feeling of shock causing him to twitch unpleasantly. Not-Harry was breathing, Tom noticed. Shallow, wheezing little breaths, but they were _there_ and suddenly all of Tom's horrified awe was bleeding out of him to be replaced with sheer terror. He had never seen anyone die. Had never seen anyone so _hurt—_he had made it to Hogwarts before the Blitz had started, was lucky enough not to face the horror of the air raids. But he had read stories, knew just how much damage was being caused by the Germans. Muggles had had their limbs crushed. Had died, buried under heaps of rubble and caught in the explosions of the bombs. Had been bludgeoned over the head with flying debris, caught in the raging fires and _burned_ to death—the sick feeling increased ten-fold and Tom jerked his hand away, his eyes tracking the sluggish movement of oxygenated blood as it stained his green comforter black.

Was this Not-Harry going to die? Was he going to bleed out until there was nothing left? Was Tom going to have to watch, frozen in his terror as a figment-of-his-imagination-come-to-life breathed one last breath right before him?

Tom didn't know. The numbness caught him then, cradled him, allowed his chest to heave and sweat to bead down his head and into his eyes. Caught in the riveting sight of death, Tom swept his arm over his eyes frantically, not wanting to miss a thing. The Not-Harry was _dying_—was going to _die_—and Tom would _see_...Tom could _know_—

"Is something the matter, Riddle?" a curious voice asked.

Tom froze his heart beating against his chest rapidly. Blood was rushing through his ears, nearly deafening everything around him. Slowly, Tom turned, the expressions on his face flipping rapidly from _horror-awe-elation_ and back again. The person—one of his dorm mates, Tom thought vaguely, unable to remember his name—was looking at him with a cross between worry and confusion.

Tom stared.

"Um," his dorm mate said, frowning. "Maybe you should go to the hospital wing. You're looking a little green."

Tom's whole body trembled. "You can't—you mean you are unable to—don't you _see_—"

The boy's gaze flittered around the room. "I—what?"

Manic energy pierced through the _horror-awe-elation_ striking Tom to the core. He couldn't see. _He couldn't __**see.**_

_I'm only here for you Tom, _Harry's voice echoed in his mind, bright and fresh despite the fact that it had happened over a year ago. His fingers twitched and he whipped around, staring at the figure on his bed. Tom's heart crashed against his sternum, painfully loud against the roaring in his ears. The other boy couldn't see—didn't _know—_Tom's ghost come to life could only be seen by _him_...

_I'm only here for you, Tom._

Like a marionette being along by invisible strings, Tom's body jerked. He fumbled with his schoolbag methodically pulling his books and essays out. He set his ink-pots and quills aside and picked out a piece of lint that had collected in the stitching. Turning and trying his hardest to ignore the body on his bed—the body which only he could see—Tom slipped his loafers back onto his feet and slung his satchel onto his shoulder. His roommate was peering at him cautiously, as though unsure what to make of him; Tom supposed he could understand, after all, he had been so _awestruck _moments before. Watching the process of death, unable to blink or look away, it had been utterly _fascinating. _

Tom maneuvered around his dorm mate, stepping into the corridor that led to the Common Room. He followed it, watching the way the shadows danced and flickered on the flagstone, offering one of the older students a smile of polite disinterest as they entered their own dorm.

The Common Room was a hush of uncertain whispers, ones which Tom did not think to evaluate fully. Automatically, he sought out Lestrange; the boy was sandwiched between his cousin and another boy—all three were talking furiously with one another, and Lestrange's face was drained of color, sickly pale and partly terrified. It reminded Tom of Harry; cold, clammy skin, blood cracked lips, shallow breathing, mangled legs and _death_—there was a vague buzzing in Tom's ears, one which he did not comprehend fully. His fingers slid absently over the empty satchel on his shoulder and before he realized it, Tom was standing outside the entrance to the Common Room, allowing the uncomfortably cold sensation of damp air to enter his lungs.

Tom's body was so uncomfortably hot—each inhale hurt as he started down the dungeon corridor, quietly listening for the sounds of Prefects patrolling the hallways. His footfalls echoed loudly in his ears, reverberating off the walls as the torches slowly began to dim; it was nearly past curfew, Tom was certain, and as soon as the Prefects finished rounding up all the students, the Professors would be on patrol...

The Entrance Hall was empty when Tom entered it; the huge stretches of walkway were covered in dirt, tracked inside from wandering students. Two stairwells branched off from either entrances of the hall, spiraling upwards to the upper floors of the castles. A Prefect was standing on the stairwell, back to Tom as she conversed with one of the portraits hanging on the wall; moving quickly, but as quietly as possible, Tom walked across the great expanse of the Entrance Hall, the soles of his shoes scuffing quietly against the gray flagstone. Moving past the other stairwell, Tom ducked into the next the corridor body thrumming as he listened for any signs that the Prefect had heard him. Instead, all he could hear was her quickly fading cheerful chatter; swallowing back a sigh, Tom straightened his shoulders and continued down the corridor, swiftly fading into the shadows as he cautiously listened for any one else who would be on patrol.

His hand was pushing open the door to the Hospital Wing before he realized he had reached his goal. The door squeaked on its wrought-iron hinges—Tom hesitated, his fingers tapping an irritated beat before pushing all the way in. Beds Tom never had the unfortunate circumstance of sleeping in lined both sides of the wall, all neatly made and mercifully empty. Moving further into the Infirmary, Tom stopped near the nurse's office; pressing his ear against the thick wooden door he listened, hoping for some indication that the elderly Mediwitch was out, unavailable and unable to catch him...

When no sound seemed forthcoming, Tom quietly pushed the door open, peering inside the room. It was very well lit but incredibly neat and organized—and empty, Tom noted, his gaze immediately flicking to the wooden cabinet that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Inching further inside, Tom closed the door behind him, his fingers tightening on the strap of his satchel before striding forward. The cabinet swung open at a touch and Tom jolted, his breath stilling as he stared at the rows and rows of potions which lined the shelves. There were so _many_—blue and red and brown and black and _green—_and with a quiver of frustration Tom had nearly forgotten how to _feel, _he realized that he had absolutely no _idea_ what any of these potions _did._

The frustration continued to bubble under the surface, growing brighter and more profound the longer Tom stared. It would be so much easier if the shelves had been labeled—but even then, Tom knew that it wouldn't have made a difference, because as a second year, he fairly certain he hadn't even had the _chance_ to brew half of these potions. The thought stung like a vicious barb; it held the flavor of the blatant disregard Billy Stubbs had showed Tom all that time ago, when he had so thoughtlessly insulted Tom's mother_, _acting as if _he_ had known something that _Tom_ _didn't..._

With a burst of anger, Tom jerked forward, his arm sweeping along the backs of the potions and dumping them all into his bag. The vials clinked against one another, some breaking and shattering from the impact; potions seeped through the fabric of his bag, colorful drops staining the tops of Tom's shoes and the floor. He moved towards the next shelf, grabbing more, stealing potion after potion until there was no more room left in his bag to hold them. The strap bit into the muscles of Tom's shoulders, pressing down with a dull pain that grounded him. Swiftly, Tom closed the potions cabinet, and moved towards the office door, carefully peering around it.

The Hospital Wing remained empty.

Creeping down the hallway, Tom carefully quieted his steps, doing his best to stay in the shadows. The corridor twisted long and cold—the torches were dimming, the darkness stretching and swallowing up the flagstone beneath his feet. The Entrance Hall was empty when he reached it—there were no ghosts, no Prefects, no Professors. Striding quickly across it, Tom dipped into another corridor and down into the dungeons. The colder air pressed against his skin, dragging frigid trails of ice along the inside of his lungs. Pausing, he listened for a sign of any one else, but once again there was nothing.

There was a strange feeling curling around Tom's chest as he strode to the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room. The wall was the same thick slab of stone that Tom had peered at time and time again after his classes had finished up for the day or his stomach was warm with the feeling of a good meal filling him up. But there was a different feeling now, one he couldn't quite comprehend and his mind flashed—blood on denim on dark dark green—and the heat suffused his body as his fingers curled around the thick strap of the satchel that dug deep into the muscles of his shoulders with a sharp, unpleasant ache.

"Gobstones_,_" Tom hissed breathlessly, watching the stone slide away.

His housemates were still milling around the Common Room; a girl with bright copper hair was curled up next to her boyfriend, pressing tiny kisses against the side of his face while a few feet away from them, two sixth years scowled at the Potions textbook in front of them. The students from his year were all nestled around a table, a half-torn copy of the Daily Prophet splattered with ink as they chattered quietly; not a single person caught his eye, not a single person realized that he was there. Or perhaps they did, Tom thought, but he was the _Heir of Slytherin_ and no one would say a word against him because it didn't _matter_ where he had gone. Lestrange might have spoken against him—and the familiar spark of anger almost superseded the deepening all-encompassing _stillness_ that had clouded his mind and submerged everything into a hazy half-there vagueness—but in the end, blood _mattered_ and Tom was in the corridor and pushing against the door to his dormitory before he could allow himself to think of it any longer.

The dorm was mercifully empty when Tom entered it and he turned and locked the door behind him without thought. Striding to his bed, he jumped on it, careful not to jostle the body lying prostrate on top of it. Harry's skin looked even paler than before, Tom noted as he drew the curtains around his bed with trembling arms. His lips, though still lined with red, were turning gray. Blood soaked into the knees of Tom's slacks and Tom reached into his satchel blindly, grabbing a potion and uncorking it. He absently remembered his time back at the orphanage when Mrs. Cole had to tend to sick children. He remembered the temper tantrums they threw when having to drink disgusting medicine, remembered that sometimes, they were so deep in their fevers that Mrs. Cole had to force them to ingest the medicine. She would lift them up slowly then open their mouths with her fingers and pour the liquid in, massaging their throats until they swallowed. Tom had never been sick before, not that he could remember, but this had to be the same, he thought.

His hands trembled under the older boy'sshoulders and Tom pulled Harry upwards with all his strength, gripping Harry's jumper tightly. His fingers shook as he pried open Harry's mouth; the hot scent of vomit invaded Tom's senses as Harry released a small, barely there breath against Tom's face, but Tom didn't recoil or stop to think. One by one, he grabbed any potion he could get his hands on and shoved it down Harry's throat, forcing him to drink. The boy shuddered against him, a half-delirious groan escaping him.

It didn't matter. Tom grabbed another potion—again and again and _again_, his knuckles scraping broken glass and splitting open, small rivulets of blood twining around his long fingers—

Harry's skin grew hot and sweat began to coat his skin in earnest as Tom grabbed another vial—the liquid was clear and pungent, and Harry's whole body gave a powerful spasm as he swallowed. Tom held on, the half-there panic making his brain work in a sludgy, intensely painful way. Harry's body trembled again, his whole body twisting and turning as it shuddered in Tom's grasp. Tom fumbled with Harry, twining both arms around his shoulders as much as he could, doing his best to get the boy to hold still, but with an almighty jerk, Harry's head snapped forward and smashed into Tom's.

Stars exploded behind Tom's eyes as he fell backwards, the cool-warm wet of blood seeping into the back of his white-collared shirt. Tom froze, his head throbbing in pain and confusion—another hit, one from Harry's mangled leg, nearly knocked him off the end of the bed, but Tom scrabbled upwards, ignoring the thin coating of blood that streaked his hands. He stared, horrified at the writhing body on the bed. Harry's head snapped back and forth and bile seemed to be pooling in his half-open mouth, leaking from the corners. His fingers convulsed against the green of Tom's comforter, flexing and curling as a strange, desperate gurgle emerged from Harry's throat.

Unable to control himself for a second more, Tom turned and reached for his satchel, clutching it tightly to his chest scrabbling as far away from Harry as could. Distantly, he could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, the blood rushing in his ears, the heat dousing his face in something akin to _fire—_but it didn't matter because Tom couldn't pull his eyes away from Harry, couldn't stop the debilitating feeling of utter _horror_ that kept his arms locked tight around his satchel despite the shards of glass which pressed through the fabric and into his skin. Harry gave another full-body spasm, his head slapping down into Tom's pillow with a force that made his jaw snap shut and stilled.

Blood was still rushing in his ears, Tom noticed. Everything was still horribly disconnected... he was supposed to have helped Harry... Harry was supposed to have gotten better... Tom couldn't think, but all he knew was what Harry had told him... what his dorm mate had allowed him to realize...

Quite suddenly, Harry's body seized upwards, his eyes snapping open. They were hazy and unfocused, lined with dirt and crust, and Tom could feel the fury returning, the hatred that he felt towards himself for _not knowing—_because he hadn't known what he was doing, hadn't known what he could have done to make Harry look so broken and empty and _gone—_

_I'm only here for you, Tom, _and Harry's eyes flickered to him, hazy and bright but _focused_.

"I think you're dying," Tom said, unable to stop the cold flush of awe that colored his voice.

Harry blinked.

"Tom," he said slowly, all rasp and pain and scarring.

"Does it hurt?" Tom asked softly, moving closer, eyes intent on the boy in front of him. Harry stared, his arms still against his side, his throat making wheezy, painful little gasps as he drew in air.

"Not at all," Harry said, his head lolling forward, his eyes dimming as something flashed across his memory—his eyes skittered to his legs and Tom watched as the expression on Harry's face morphed into something indescribable—pain horror revulsion uncertainty anger sadness _fear—_and Harry's hand shot out, snatching Tom by his wrist and yanking him forward. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

He fumbled weakly with Tom's hands, pulling the satchel away before shoving around the vials inside and pulling two out. Tom watched in fascination and awe as Harry uncorked one and flung the contents on his legs—steam curled around the bloodied, mangled flesh and Harry's body went ramrod straight, his jaw snapping shut as a low, painful moan escaped out into the air—

And then Tom felt glass against his lips, felt the cool taste of a disgusting potion swirling about in his mouth. With Harry's trembling hands rubbing roughly against his throat, Tom swallowed back the liquid, the frigid touch of a sleep he didn't want rubbing against his insides.

Harry collapsed back onto the bed, his eyes staring unseeingly up at Tom's canopy.

Tom fell asleep a moment later.

xXx

The vagueness was back, clouding his mind like a thick poison. One minute there was darkness and the next he was—

—sitting in his hard-backed wooden chair, watching the rain slam against his window. A thousand needle-points disappeared into round beads, sliding and merging and forming into bigger droplets which ran down the glass in thick streaks of moisture. He could hear the other kids screeching as they thundered down the hallway, their restlessness at being confined exploding outwards and reverberating off the wood-cold walls. Annoyance flickered inside of him—he wanted silence, wanted time to think, to forget about the man who had sat on his bed and asked painfully misleading questions about how he was or what he thought about or why it was so important for him to hurt the other children and—

There was no proof. Like a flame doused in kerosene his anger erupted, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk as messy inkblots flashed before his eyes and he would _not_ be taken away, not even from _here_**—**the place they made him hate with every fiber of his being just because he was _different_**—**

A knock sounded at his door and Tom glared out in the stormy day, refusing to answer. He heard it creak open; hastily, his turned his gaze to the book open in front of him, hardly remembering that he was supposed to be reading it as he had missed his lessons yesterday... all because he had been accused of pushing another child down the stairs...

"Hello Tom," a soft voice said and Tom, feeling his heart thudding in his chest, desperately wished it wasn't another psychologist come to test to him. He didn't want to be asked questions about the funny things that seemed to happen around him or the hate that was nestled in his heart or wonder whether he felt the slow, horrible ache that came with knowing his mother was dead and his father was nowhere to claim him. He felt his palms get wet because he couldn't deal with that now, not with the hate that was burning-burning-_burning_, so Tom turned, hoping and wishing that it was anything else but that and—

—he was staring up at his canopy, eyes adjusting to the darkness that shrouded his bed in silence. Tom's eyes fluttered as he breathed in deeply; his mouth had the distinct taste of morning breath and something foreign and foul. With a vague flicker of remembrance, he could feel the cool glass of the potion vial pressed against his lips, could remember the way he stared at the not-real specter that was made of flesh and blood and could talk and breathe and _seize—_Tom's body stilled almost immediately, his fingers clenching and unclenching as the memory morphed. It wasn't just the pain he had seen, the sound of the not-real specter's head cracking against his own as Tom force fed him potions. It wasn't even the memory of the mangled legs, shredded flesh, torn sinews and the sight of off-white bone glistening through the pink-white elasticity of muscle. It was the fear—the terror and the exhilaration at the mere _thought—_

Tom had never seen anyone die before.

The not-real specter's skin had gone grey; the blood lines of his lips the only thing that stood out against that ghostly pallor. Tom remembered that—remembered it clearly, despite the way he had pressed his hand against cool skin, allowed the sweat to slick his palm cool. The feeling was strange, bizarre and Tom couldn't reconcile the numbness he felt with the exhilaration of watching someone die and... his dorm mate hadn't seen it. Hadn't _known._ But Tom did. Tom had seen the carnage and the blood, had felt something squeeze a foreign pressure against his chest. All Tom could remember was that _I am only here for you, Tom._

Shifting, Tom turned onto his side, his mind jolting at the empty space beside him. He remembered the foul taste of the potion—whatever it was—as it was forced down his throat and the cold feeling of sleep encompassed him. He recalled falling beside the not-real specter, his face pressing against his sweat soaked pillow and... nothing. His curtains were pulled tight around his bed, no sign of them having been moved or pushed aside, but the bed was wrinkled. The not-real specter had been there. Tom _remembered. _But now he was _gone._

The notion stung like the smack of a ruler against his skin.

Tom pressed his palm against the space beside him, felt his sheets press back twice as cold and his lips pulled back into a snarl. The thought that he had helped him—that Tom had stolen _potions_ from the Hospital Wing for the specter—caused a blinding rage to erupt within Tom, melding with the fire until every muscle in his body was held painfully taut and still.

He wasn't supposed to leave. Tom had helped him—_saved him_—but despite that, despite the way blood had slicked Tom's palms and sweat dripped into his eyes as he fed potion after potion to his specter-turned-flesh, despite the fact that he had no idea what any of those potions _did—_Harry was supposed to have stayed. Things had been more different than anything Tom had even imagined and the specter was _his, _had told Tom so himself and still, _still_, he was gone.

_But of course he would disappear, _Tom thought furiously, his jaw clenched shut tightly. _He's never stayed before._

Tom remembered those times, too—spoken promises that tingled unpleasantly against his skin, burning like acid, the tightening of a hand against his shoulder as he was pressed into a direction that he did not want to take—_manipulation, _Tom recalled, hating the feeling of it. The ghost was good at it, had continuously spoke words to push him... somewhere. To get him to _think. _About what, Tom didn't know, but he did know that he wanted to forget—had done so well before, allowing their meetings to fade into a half-there memory that lingered like a rotting infection—but the closer Tom came to forgetting, the more the specter showed up.

It grated at Tom, frustrated and infuriated him, because he was tired of thinking of the ghost that wasn't there, the teenaged boy that made promises he couldn't keep and was nothing more than a blatant inconsistency. Tom hated the lies, hated the fact that he had put _so much _into the teenager. _I stole potions, _Tom thought explosively, remembering the brutal warning Dumbledore had spoken so evenly the day he had found out he was a wizard—_thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts—_knowing the danger and the sheer amount of rule-breaking he had taken part in, _I stole them, just to heal him, and he __**left**_. Tom thought he shut it off, thought the numbness hadn't mattered, and yet... the specter's words played in his head like a broken record, over and over and over again. They clung to him, the spider-webs of his mind sticky and unrelenting, forcing him into a constant state of fury because Tom just wanted to _forget. _There were so many more important things he could be thinking about—he was the Heir of Slytherin, after all, and his ancestor had left him a _secret chamber_ with a _monster _inside. He had to find it, had to unlock the secrets of his lineage; Tom wanted the euphoric triumph back, wanted the rich and heady feeling on his tongue. And then, of course, he remembered Lestrange, remembered the jeering way he had tried to harm Tom—_Do they evacuate orphans, too?_—and the memory of the punishment was enough for Tom to shove aside his bed curtains, staring imploringly at the boy sleeping on the bed beside his.

Yes, there were so many more important things to think about; he had pondered the possibility of getting caught, relished in the thought of getting away with the punishment, of getting his revenge right under the teachers' noses—

_I'm only here for you, Tom, _the voice repeated and Tom's fingers gripped the thick drapes around his bed in anger.

It didn't matter, Tom decided. He had too many things to focus on—the Chamber, Lestrange, learning (because even now, despite the fact that the ghost had awoken, Tom hadn't _known_ what to do, was actually lacking in knowledge and the thought chafed at him, made his insides black with fury and self-hate because he _didn't like it_)—and he couldn't let some absent spirit affect him. He _wouldn't._

The anger still remained.

xXx

The Potions were gone.

Tom stared at his satchel blankly, turning the empty object over in his hands; a shard of glass pricked his finger and Tom watched as the skin gave way, a tiny bead of blood forming on the soft pad near his nail. He watched the crimson dot curiously, saw it reach maximum saturation before spilling down into the crevices of his knuckles. Tom remembered blood—had seen it in doses the other night, clotting against the denim of the specter's jeans and—_No!_ Tom thought viciously, snatching his hand out of sight and glaring down at his trunk. _I refuse to think about that. I __**won't**_!

Scrabbling at the shard of glass, Tom yanked it free and tossed it on aimlessly on the floor; he swiped his up his school books and homework, his ink-pots and quills, and shoved them haphazardly into his satchel, swinging the strap onto his shoulder. It didn't bite into his shoulder, not the way it had when it was weighed down with all those potions and—_STOP, _Tom snarled to himself, slipping his feet into his loafers carefully.

He had to stop thinking about it. Had to force himself to think about something else—he had latched so wholeheartedly onto his anger that he had allowed it to drown the memories out, had given him the moments he needed to get dressed and prepare himself for the day. Tom had thought it had faded into the monotony of his morning ritual, but all he could think of was the way he had discarded his robe after being drenched in his own sweat as his heart raced, beating wonderfully against his ribcage as he was allowed to experience _death;_ the way the glass shards of the broken potion vials had cut into his fingers the night before, the way he had walked determinedly from one end of the castle to the other after curfew, all just to heal a person he never knew how to heal in the first place—

"You already headed for breakfast, Riddle?" his year mate asked—Avery, Tom recalled, glancing at the boy absently—and Tom was very glad for the distraction. He didn't want to continue down the path of frustration, did not want to feel his cheeks flush with anger all because he couldn't stop _thinking..._

"Yes," Tom said quietly, drumming his fingers against his thigh. His eyes caught on the fragment of glass on the floor, and his stomach twisted.

"All right," Avery said, yawning widely. "I'll see you there."

Jerking violently at the obvious dismissal, Tom glared at Avery before turning promptly on his heel and stalking out of the dormitory. He _hated_ people telling him what to do. The behavior had started in Tom's first year, when he was nothing more than a pathetic half-blood—because admitting he was anything less burned trails of venom across his heart and with each whispered word of disgust the other students flung at him, Tom could feel himself getting more worked up, wanting nothing more than to pick up his wand and fling his newly learned spells right in their faces. It was strange, Tom thought, and incredibly ironic that despite knowing his heritage, despite knowing the legacy that pumped through Tom's veins, the other students still hadn't broken out of their malicious habits.

_But I can be just as malicious, _Tom thought as he moved through the Common Room and out into the dungeon corridors. Other Slytherins were leaving as well, some casting him half-wary glances, and Tom suddenly found himself reminded of the odd feeling he had the night before. The way the students looked at him... it was so strange, so different, so _indefinable... _he honestly wondered what it meant. Fingers tightening around the strap of his satchel, Tom continued to wonder, caught up in his thoughts, allowing his feet to follow the familiar path to the Great Hall. He had walked this way before, only last night, caught up in the numbness that blanketed the exhilaration, the need to save what was only his to save, to make sure the specter _lasted..._

_NO, _Tom's snarled internally, hating the remembrance. _Stop __**thinking. **__He left. And he __**lied. **__He's no better than the rest of them—my father, Mrs. Cole, the other students, my professors... they're all liars and none of them matter so just stop __**thinking. **_

But it was hard. Because the more Tom tried to forget, the more the memories reappeared, trapped in his mind's eye. He could feel the anger building, coalescing; it was becoming harder to control, harder to keep hidden. He could feel the mask cracking, could feel the heat and the hatred leaking from his eyes and with a violent jolt, Tom staggered into an empty classroom and slammed the door shut. Striding over to a dusty table, Tom threw his satchel down onto the surface; his ink-pots clinked together, glass scratching against glass. The cacophony of noise grated on Tom's ears, loud and shrill and unpleasant. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides, blunt nails digging into the flat of his palm and Tom could sense the feelings slipping out, tainting the air with the vicious streaks of red. His arms trembled and jaw clenched so hard it hurt, but Tom couldn't _stop_—he had never felt anger like this, so profound and unexplainable and suddenly, it wasn't just anger but _fear_, because no matter how much the other orphans or adults had hurt him, no one had been able to break under the surface so seamlessly. Tom tried recalling the fury he felt towards Billy Stubbs, so mindless and violent—he wanted to feel his magic wrapping around the rabbit's neck, listening to it squeal as it struggled just to breathe; he wanted to see Amy Benson's and Dennis Bishop's minds _break_ under the sheer force of his will. He wanted to throw up the mask he had worn so effortlessly in front of Dumbledore—he didn't want people to see in his head, to know that they could rule his feelings, because his feelings were his own and he didn't _care._

He was superior to them. Tom knew this. Knew it better than he knew what it felt like to see magic flowing from the tip of his wand and transfiguring needles into matchsticks. Knew it better than the taste of pumpkin juice in his mouth, or the way the way the rain pelted against the barred windows at the orphanage. He knew it better than the hate that curled within him, the terrible half-thoughts that left him shaky and coated with a thin sheen of sweat—he had known it since the first time something funny had happened around him, since the first time he had actually caused fear to flash in the eyes of the other orphans and Tom relished it.

Tom latched onto that feeling, felt it weigh him down with its overwhelming presence. But before he could stop himself—before he could let the anger fade with a burst of triumphant validation—the thought exploded into his mind, thick and heavy and _raw._

_Where __**is**__ he?_

xXx

Harry felt the pull before he heard the thought—it dug deep into the pit of his being, splaying out in a painful kaleidoscope of colors before rippling outwards and positively _wrenching _him to his feet. Harry staggered half-dazed as he moved towards the door to the Astronomy tower, his breath coming out in painful little pants. He wasn't sure _why_ the anchor was acting now, but then the thought burst across his mind, hot and violent and full of so much _rage—_

_Where __**is **__he? _it echoed, and Harry struggled hard to pull back, to force the anchor in the opposite direction because everything still _hurt._

The scar tissue on his legs pulled painfully; his bones felt brittle and breakable, nearly healed but not enough. Harry wanted to collapse, to feel the twinges of pain cease and nothing but the prickling numbness to dance over his calves, but he knew it wouldn't. Not with the anchor pulling so strongly, not with the way it ached to ignore it, to try and set his feet against the flagstone and fight with all his might in the other direction. Fumbling with the bag pressed against his chest, Harry reached inside and blearily took out his wand—Holly and phoenix feather, eleven-and-a-half inches and it never stopped feeling so _right_—and felt the magic thrum at his fingertips. His head ached as he touched the tip to his chest; his eyes burned as he struggled to see past the gray-colored world, tried so hard not to stare at the thick cracks that marred the lenses of his glasses—but the anchor was sticking, and with a frustrated flick of his wand, Harry sent the pull back.

xXx

There was electricity in his skin.

The shock exploded in his chest, a sharp zing flaying down the thread and leaving him awed and open and bright. Tom felt the compulsion thrumming in his chest; it was quick, like the wings of a hummingbird and Tom wanted to cradle it in his hands, watch as it fluttered, each pulse coming faster, stronger and brighter than the next. He stood still for a minute, his thoughts whirling in confusion—it was the same as his will, didn't even come close to what it felt like to simply break Amy and Dennis and yet... the thought of the compulsion disgusted Tom, made his want to rear back and claw it from his chest. But the electricity continued to spark, continued to douse him with that euphoric awe and Tom couldn't hate it, not when it felt so much like _magic. _So he let out a shuddering breath and stilled, trying to remember when he felt it last.

_Where is he, _a vacant thought reminded, and with veritable push Tom found himself snatching up his satchel and striding out of the classroom, a sort of semi-haze lingering about his head.

It was as if he were peering through a fog; the world was monochrome and gray, completely lacking color. The taste of the castle air was distinctly off. Like the electricity zapping along his chest, he could feel the currents on the air, pulsing as he moved past portraits and up stairs; he could vaguely see his destination in his mind's eye, but it was shrouded in fog and the longer he tried to look, the hazier the image became. But the pull knew where to take him—Tom could feel something rooted on the other end—and the agitation he felt at the compulsion cracked like a whip across his skin.

Portraits gazed at him steadily, some waving cheerfully and others barely giving him a glance; the Bloody Baron swooped past him, chains clanking brutally and Tom resisted the layer of cold that settled on him as the Barons robes tickled his skin. The chill was as unpleasant as the London winters; Tom could almost feel the slush of the snow sloshing about in his shoes, his socks drenched and toes numbingly cold. He could remember the way he was forced to dip his feet into hot water, allowing the needle-points to prickle at his nerves, poignant and incredibly uncomfortable. Sometimes there was hot cocoa, if the orphans were lucky, but most of the times, it was just tepid tea, because with as many children as there were in the orphanage, there wasn't enough cocoa to go around.

The stairs continued to spiral upwards towards the tallest tower; the air wasn't any thinner but it was warmer. Sunlight streamed through the castle windows, kissing Tom's pale skin as he followed the pull with a single-minded determination. He wanted to know where it led, what it meant. He could feel the presence on the other end digging in, forcing him forwards and it hummed and hummed and hummed and _hummed_ and Tom didn't want to _let it go._

_Oh, _Tom thought blandly, catching the rays of sun in the palm of his hand. There was another tug, more violent and demanding than the last, and Tom stumbled, his shoulder banging painfully against the wall of the corridor.

The haze receded slightly, giving way to reason, and Tom frowned as he tried to still the hummingbird in his chest. Still, _still_ he could not stop following, could see his destination because whatever was inside of him was digging deep and _yanking—_

Tom pushed the door to the astronomy tower open; his eyes scanned the platform and with a sickening jolt of _something _the anger plummeted.

"Hullo, Tom," Harry greeted, propped tiredly against the wall.

Tom stared.

Harry stared back.

And then—

"You're here," Tom said colorlessly, his face completely blank.

"Yes," Harry agreed vaguely.

"I thought you left."

Awareness flickered into Harry's expression then and he gazed at Tom intently. Tom felt his insides squirm—he _hated_ that look, had seen so many other adults give it to him whenever they were thinking of ways to try and get him to do what they wanted, and Tom remembered that Harry wore it well.

"Well I didn't," Harry said at last, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "What year are you in?"

Tom frowned, the questioning having an odd ringing familiarity to it. He thought back to weeks ago—when Harry had first stumbled upon him for the first time at Hogwarts; he had been studying and felt the presence hovering over his shoulder, swiftly pressing down on him. Harry had asked him the same question then—or, no, had he asked him how old he was? Tom didn't remember, but the fact that Harry didn't seem to know the passage of time was oddly baffling to Tom.

"Second," Tom replied, watching Harry blankly. "I'll be thirteen in December."

"Right," Harry answered with a grimace. "So not much time has passed, then?"

"No."

Harry nodded. "Anything interesting going on?"

Tom drummed his fingers against his thigh absently, then slid his satchel off of his shoulder and set it on the ground. Harry watched the movements with a sort of detached disinterest—which was strange, Tom noted, because generally Harry was incredibly aware of everything that he ever did... except he couldn't be, not with the way that he always disappeared, and Tom's shoulders tightened as his back went straight.

"The Air Raids," Tom replied, his lip curling in disdain.

"The Air Raids?" Harry asked, his fingers trailing against his legs.

"The Germans are bombing London," Tom replied, and the tension continued to coil tight and travel along his spine. "They've had to evacuate the children."

"But not all of them," Harry pointed out, and Tom jerked. Harry gazed at him silently.

"No," Tom agreed through gritted teeth. His eyes flickered to Harry's legs. "You were dying, you know." He paused long enough to see Harry's reaction—a subtle flinch and his jaw setting in agitation—but Tom couldn't stop. The exhilaration was heady, a steady feeling that increased the more he thought about it and suddenly, Tom wanted to _know._ "What was it like? You said it didn't hurt, that dying was like sleeping, but it can't be, not when it happens like—"

"_Stop_," Harry cut in, flicking his hand around roughly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"_No._"

Tom's eyes narrowed. "_Tell me_."

Harry laughed; it was mocking and cruel and grated on every surface of Tom that was open to the sound—he found himself scowling, his nails biting back into his palm, and the anger was back, no longer pressed down by the triumph but wanting to _explode_. His body trembled and Tom understood this derision, had seen it so clearly in his classmate's face the night before—the way the pure glee at Tom's predicament seem to pierce Lestrange down to the very soul was echoed in Harry, but the edges were frayed slightly, darker, and for the life of him, Tom didn't understand why.

"I'd rather just hex you, thanks," Harry said sarcastically and his wand was suddenly in his hand, flicking around lazily. "Exactly how well are you doing in Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

"But you won't," Tom replied softly, and the echo was back. Harry's eyes darkened.

"I can start now, you know," said Harry loudly, glaring at him.

It was Tom's turn to laugh.

Harry jerked back, his head thudding painfully against the wall behind him; Tom heard him curse, saw the vicious dark look that was sent his way, the way Harry's shoulders rose, painfully tight, but his laughter continued to echo in his ears, high and loud and cathartic.

"_Stop it,_" Harry hissed, shoving to his feet.

Tom ignored him.

"_Tom,_" Harry warned, but Tom couldn't stop, not with the ways the irony was pricking holes in his head. Harry surged across the space separating them, and with a painful jab, the wand was caught in the hollow of his neck, but the laughter didn't stop.

There was a moment—Harry's green eyes flashed bright, full of hot anger and deadly promise—and suddenly, something slammed into Tom's chest, forcing him off his feet and through the air. His body slammed into the wall; the air left his lungs in one, painful whoosh and he choked as he collapsed onto the floor, scrabbling to breathe, trying so hard to stop the half-hysterical breathless laughs.

"You hurt me," Tom said breathlessly, hugging his arms around his middle. There was disbelieving laughter in his words. "You promised and you still hurt me."

Harry brought his wand down in a harsh movement, and Tom hissed as a hex stung across his hand. Tom glared at his fingers, long, spidery, and pale, watching in quiet fury as the welt rose up, the stinging discomfort more prominent as the air continued to press down on it.

"You're just like them," Tom hissed, unfolding himself and stumbling to his feet. Harry's eyes narrowed, his expression clouded with anger. "I never should have saved you."

Harry choked.

Tom glared, furious and hurting and _hating, _wishing he was older, wishing he could simply lift up his wand and fling spell after horrible spell at Harry—but he was only twelve and he simply didn't _know. _Tom was familiar with this feeling, familiar with being angry at others and at himself. If he were stronger, if he were older, if he simply _knew more—_but he didn't, so Tom did the only thing he could do since he first came to Hogwarts.

He walked away.


	6. Chapter 6: Avery

**Title: **Trying for Eden

**Summary: **The first time Tom met Harry there was a rabbit hanging in the rafters.

**Pairings: **HP/TMR, implied HG/RW, implied HP/GW

**Genre: **angst, drama, horror, romance, etc.

**Warnings: **slash, het, minor gore, time-travel

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter.

**Note:** I haven't responded to any reviews, but I just want to say that I really do appreciate everyone taking the time to read and comment on my story. I also appreciate all of those who added this story to their favorites and alerted it. Thank you!

xXx

Out of all of his dorm mates, Avery was the most accessible. Despite having been revealed as the Heir of Slytherin, Tom's housemates kept to the status quo—that meant, of course, keeping away from the half-blood. Whatever Tom's revelation had changed in their thinking, their actions remained the same. Lestrange was one of the only ones foolish enough to act on his pureblood superiority, regardless of the fact that even though Tom's blood sang with the discordant thrum of _filthmudbloodshame, _the piercing swell of _legacypuritymagic _was irrefutable. Tom hissed his superiority in sibilant words, claimed his legacy in the swish and flick of his wand, and demanded respect in the sharp degradation of his unstoppable fury.

So when Tom found Avery on the way to Potions and said, "I left my school bag at the top of the Astronomy Tower," Avery didn't hesitate to hand his own possessions over and go to the Astronomy Tower to locate Tom's.

xXx

Avery didn't get a chance to speak to Tom until after Charms. By that time, the swap had been done; a strange expression had flickered over Tom's face when Avery handed over the boy's rightful belongings and it left Avery feeling distinctly uneasy. Of course, he was used to this—no matter how many times he tried being friendly with Tom, the other boy would always direct a _look_ towards him. It had to be disgust or dislike or _something_ and usually, Avery wouldn't care, but Tom was the _Heir of Slytherin_ and to be noticed at all was like fighting against the tides of the sea and _finally_ being able to come up for air.

Or, more realistically, like eating his favorite sweet for the first time and discovering just how fantastic it really was.

Lestrange had been noticed, Avery knew. Avery had been there, sinking low in his seat the moment Lestrange made that crack about orphans—and what was he thinking, _really?_ Didn't he know that Tom was the most brilliant student in their year? Didn't he know that, in addition to the cleverness, Tom had the _sheer magical capabilities_ to back that intellect up? Didn't Lestrange know that the utter fury and hatred behind any spell that Tom cast would be enough to sweep Lestrange right off his feet and send him flying?

Avery had been rightfully disgusted the first time he met Tom. Riddle was _such_ a Muggle name, all dirt and filth and inconsequential. The moment the hat had been placed onto Riddle's head_—_not even a second had passed—it was bellowing out Slytherin's name. There was no emotion on Riddle's face, no flicker of excitement, none of the pureblood arrogance that meant another familial legacy was being fulfilled. No. It was just an eleven-year-old boy wearing ratty, second-hand robes and the whispers were shooting up and down the table before Tom Riddle had even left the stool.

"Riddle?" Someone asked.

"Is that even a pureblood name?"

"_I've_ never heard of it before."

"Sounds like the name of a mudblood."

"_Nonsense. _There are no _mudbloods _in _Slytherin._"

Then Tom was there, sliding into the seat opposite of Avery_, _face inscrutable but eyes positively _gleaming—_yet Avery knew enough about the purity of blood, knew that a Slytherin with the Muggle name _Riddle_ was definitely _not _a Pureblood, so he took his cue from the elder students and clamped his jaw shut, refusing to speak a word to one of the newest additions to Slytherin House.

Tom made it easy the first year. Just as Avery sought to keep himself separate from Tom, Tom sought to keep himself separate from _everyone else. _At first it irked Avery, made him want to push the boundaries of personal space and pull at all the cracks that lined that perfectly impenetrable eleven-year-old mask Riddle called a face because no one could be _that_ perfect, that brilliant, that _untouchable. _Yet Tom walked around as if he didn't have a care in the world, as if the silence didn't bother him, as if having no friends meant nothing so long as his brilliance managed to shine through the disparity of his blood and keep all the Professors on the short leash which ensnared them all.

Avery didn't want to be caught in that sticky web of awe, because he knew that Riddle was nothing more than a disgusting half-blood—his mother, or father, or neither (because Riddle was such a ridiculously Muggle name, it wouldn't have surprised Avery if Tom _were_ a mudblood, except _Slytherin didn't accept them_) had crossed the line and spawned something less than perfect, so what right did Riddle have to act as though he were? So Avery decided and convinced Lestrange to go along for the ride. What was once the denial of Riddle's existence had turned into full on hazing; Full-Body Binds were cast at the worst possible moments, slurs were thrown in Riddle's face without pause, dormitory doors were locked forcing Riddle to sleep out in the Common Room, personal objects were misplaced, homework was stolen only to return once the Professors had assigned something else, long-dead family members were insulted, and the real clincher—the one that made the little volcano of hate within Riddle erupt whenever he set eyes on Avery or Lestrange—was the fact that Tom was stuck in a disgusting, dirty Muggle orphanage where everyone hated him and even the _Muggles_ were better than the boy stuck straddling both worlds, half magic half filth.

First year had ended splendidly, with Tom being able to do nothing but furrow his brow and tap the toe of his ugly, second-hand loafers against the ground. His lips remained pressed in a thin line, but the mask hadn't cracked entirely and Avery felt the need coalescing inside of him. If only he could bring Riddle down a notch, make that supposed brilliance shatter into a thousand little useless shards...

Second year was supposed to be a repeat of the first. Avery had been on top—not academically, because no matter how many times they tried to sabotage Riddle, he was just too _brilliant—_but socially, and the feeling remained, at first.

And then the Blitz happened.

Yet something had happened to Riddle _first._

Avery hadn't known what it was; one minute, Riddle was ignoring everyone, walking through the crowd as though he were just a shadow fading into the background, and the next he was a ball of tightly coiled fury, sweeping through the ranks of the older years. No matter how much people wanted to ignore Riddle's existence, Riddle had a way of swinging right into people's personal bubbles and _demanding_ attention, so when Riddle asked Walburga Black about being a Parselmouth (and really, it was such a randomly ridiculous question, Avery couldn't get over his shock fast enough to even _tease_ to other boy about it) Black could do nothing but answer. And when Riddle came back later in the week demonstrating the most coveted magical ability in the world—behind being a Metamorphmagus or an Animagus or, well, _immortal—_everyone could only stare in shocked awe because Riddle was a stinking _half-blood_ and talking to snakes was, well. He shouldn't have been able to do that. Yet he could.

Avery wasn't sure what to think of that. But the thought of talking to snakes was quickly swept away because the Germans had _bombed London_—the terror was a deep-seated, soul-clenching agony which swept its way along his brow, past the curve of his neck, and straight down his spine—and soon, everyone was so caught up in the sheer amount of death sinking into British soil that the implications of what Tom's ability meant was shucked to the wayside.

When the Air Raids became a way of life—there was no escaping them really, nor the terror that pressed achingly against everyone's lungs—Tom was still there, still charming the Professor's with his unlimited brilliance and the upper years made Avery realize that if Tom Riddle was _talking to snakes—_well, everyone made mistakes.

"Hey Riddle," Avery remembered saying, tugging the boy by the crook of his elbow and willfully ignoring the way Riddle bared his teeth at him. "I just wanted to tell you, what with the way I treated you all last year and a little of this—well, I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have... but I did, so I'm really, really sorry."

Riddle hadn't said anything, which frustrated Avery because he _had_ apologized. That blank, colorless mask was back, hiding everything the other boy was thinking and the need to break it apart so seamlessly had risen within Avery once again—but it wasn't his place, and the more Avery thought about it, the sicker the roiling in his stomach became. Tom Riddle was the _Heir of Slytherin_ and no matter how much Avery wanted to sink his fingers into the cracks of that perfect little mask and see what was really making the boy tick underneath, he _couldn't_—Pureblood superiority promised that Avery would always be at the top, would always be recognized by the quality of his blood alone, but being a pureblood was nothing compared to being the Heir of Slytherin, and Avery wouldn't even try to supersede that. So he offered another apology, washed his hands of his cruel obsession and redirected his energy.

Tom acknowledged him, yes. Would speak to him whenever Avery would greet him, but Tom still kept himself separate, flinging his fury at Lestrange—that boy just wouldn't _stop_—and Avery saw himself fade into the back of Riddle's thoughts. A housemate, but no one important. He stopped being important the moment he apologized and allowed Riddle to reach up and claim his title. The London Bombings were still scratching paths of fire inside everyone's hearts—were the Germans only going to attack London? Were they going to start bombing other places as well? When would the destruction stop? When would it be safe to simply live one's life without feeling the terror nearly choking them or the grief welling up trying to drown them from the inside out? London was a battle ground, awash with blood, sorrow, and the bright orange flames of destruction. Every single bombing littered the front page of the Daily Prophet—Diagon Alley had been abandoned, magic standing no chance against bombs that fell from the sky, tearing down buildings brick by solid brick—and Avery could feel the tension in every person in the castle growing with each passing day.

Not many wizards spent time amidst Muggles; there were some that liked to live smack dab in the middle of a Muggle city, but the majority kept themselves separate on the outskirts of town, hiding their magic and keeping a low profile. No one aside from the Blacks had much to fear in terms of London. Yes, the terror was there, yes, it was a horrible thing the Germans were doing, but no one really had to return, no one had to live day in and day out wondering whether their home or business or loved ones would be the next to go.

But then Lestrange had decided to open his big mouth—and how could Avery had forgotten, _really?_—and his words sliced down to the bone, horrifyingly cruel in their intensity—_Do they evacuate orphans, too?_ The mask hadn't cracked, but the volcano inside Riddle had _exploded;_ his wand was leveled at Lestrange's face before anyone could even _blink_, but Tom must've learned to hold back in his fury, or he just couldn't think of whichever hex he wanted to use on Lestrange first, because the pause was long enough for Lestrange's ugly cousin to sweep in and usher him away, the acknowledgement that everyone had been seeking to forget hovering on the air with Walburga Black's shrilly hiss.

_He's the Heir of Slytherin, you bumbling idiot!_

Avery made it a point to watch Tom; see the emotions shifting across his face, the way the light in his eyes would shine brighter and duller according to his emotions. Avery could admit, he was pants at accurately reading the other boy, but what he saw in Riddle's expression as he walked back to the dormitory made every single hair on the back of Avery's neck stand up. He didn't know why, couldn't _explain it_, so he didn't try. Instead he waited, because the status quo was still in effect—_stay away from the half-blood_—and the moment he could, he slipped off to the dorm to apologize on Lestrange's behalf. And if Tom was acting, well, _completely and utterly unbalanced, _Avery did not say a word, just allowed the boy to dump all his things on the top of his trunk, pick a piece of lint from the lining of his satchel and sweep out of the room like a puppet being pulled along on invisible strings.

Whatever it was Tom needed to do, Avery wouldn't question it. Black's public acknowledgement of Riddle's ancestry was more than enough for Avery to go back to the Common Room and wait—and waiting certainly paid off, because Tom returned with his bag filled to the brim with... well, Avery couldn't tell, exactly, but they looked like potions and whatever Riddle needed them for, it wasn't Avery's place to ask. Everyone waited, but when they were too tired to stay up any longer, they all trudged to the dormitory only to find the door _locked_—what _irony, _Avery couldn't help thinking—but the older students were really good at casting that simple _Alohamora_ spell and Avery's bed remained incredibly comfortable that night.

Tom's behavior the next morning was anything but normal—the _look_ came again, and it made Avery's skin _crawl—_but he was polite enough not to say anything about it. However when Tom caught him just as he was headed to Potions, Avery felt insides freeze up in shock because someone had done it, someone had carved chinks the size of Avery's fist in Tom's perfect little mask and as much as Avery wanted to peer between the gorges of hurt making Tom's expression so utterly neutral, Riddle wanted Avery to do something. So Avery did it. It didn't stop his heart from racing, though, or the constant bellows of thought which shouted _what in Merlin's name happened?_

The Astronomy Tower was supposed to give him an answer, but it was empty—Riddle's things were just tossed carelessly to the floor, and knowing he was late for Potions kept Avery standing stock still in the Tower, watching the way the sun rose higher in the sky until it was time to reappear for Transfiguration. Riddle collected his things and the cracks were still _there—_the look Riddle had given Avery made his insides squirm and his stomach clench. It was the same expression that Tom had worn the night before when Lestrange had overstepped his bounds and Avery was so uneasy he wanted to merely skitter away from the half-blood, but his curiosity got the best of him, as well as his need to please, so he hurried out of Charms and found Riddle sitting by himself in the Great Hall.

"Riddle," Avery greeted, ignoring the blank look sent his way. "Mind if I eat with you?"

Riddle did, of course, but Avery suspected he was too keyed-up to say otherwise. That look of barely contained fire was still in his eyes and Avery shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he reached for the pitcher of pumpkin juice.

"So..." Avery began after a few minutes of eating in silence. "How'd you do on your Transfiguration essay?"

Tom's mouth tightened. "Fairly good, I imagine."

"You mean you didn't even _check_?"

Tom paused long enough to give Avery another _look. _"Professor Dumbledore has made a point to never give me an O on any of my assignments."

Avery frowned. "What? Why?"

Tom shrugged absently. "I suppose you'd have to ask him that, won't you?"

"Yeah, but you're _brilliant_ at Transfiguration. I've never seen anyone get magic the way that you do—and you _always _get top marks in all of our other classes—"

"And yet our other classes have no bearing on my scores in Transfiguration."

"Well, yes, but—"

"_Avery,_" Riddle said, looking at the other boy correctly for the first time, "Do you ever pay attention in Professor Dumbledore's class?"

Avery opened his mouth, prepared to snap off an agitated retort—but Tom caught his eye and Avery felt himself hesitating, because what did Tom mean exactly? Of course Avery paid attention. He wouldn't be able to perform the magic if he wasn't listening to what Professor Dumbledore said. Sometimes doing the magic was easier than breathing and other times it was incredibly difficult, but Avery had partnered with Tom enough times to know that it was never difficult for the Heir of Slytherin. Magic just came natural to that boy, despite the unnaturalness of half his blood. Avery didn't get it, didn't understand, and the longer he stared at Tom, silently trying to figure out what the other boy was trying to say, the less he wanted to.

"I don't understand."

Riddle just smiled politely.

xXx

The rest of the day passed in much the same way; Avery found himself gravitating to Tom during classes, stealing the open seat beside him and trying to start up conversations. In between classes, Avery would follow him silently, watch as Tom's attention was stolen by the Portraits on the walls or the students shoving past them. A group of Ravenclaws in their year stopped Tom once, asking for help on their Potions essays and Tom just smiled pragmatically and agreed—Avery felt his chest tighten with each forcibly polite smile that Tom gave away.

Avery didn't understand the feeling that was growing inside of him—the uneasiness was there, but it seemed that as the day progressed, Tom was slowly headed back to his idea of normal. The mask was pushed further back into place, cemented over... whatever it was... that Tom continuously tried to hide and the more the students spoke to the Heir of Slytherin, the more Avery realized that just because _Slytherins_ disparaged Tom Riddle because of his blood did not mean that the other Houses were just going to fall in line and do the same.

Even so, Tom didn't have friends. Sure, the other students would swing by and ask for help and Tom would willingly offer it to them with that same aggravating politely disinterested smile on his face, but none of them ever stuck around after receiving an agreement and Avery had to squash down the burgeoning irritation inside of him.

"Why do you let them do that?" Avery finally asked at dinner that night.

Tom peered at him quietly, his face giving nothing away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Those Ravenclaws," Avery bit out, spearing a piece of potato roughly. "They just walk up to you and expect you to help them and you just let them. It's revolting."

Tom twitched. "I seem to remember them asking for help—"

"But that doesn't mean you have to give it—"

"—and it is a compliment, as you well know, for other students to seek me out just—"

"—I mean, yeah, you're brilliant but—"

"—so they can defer to my superior knowledge in subjects in which they are—"

"—you're also the bloody _Heir of Slytherin_!"

"—seriously lacking," Tom finished quietly. His fingers had tightened on his fork and Avery watched, surprised, as Tom's head tilted to the side as he regarded Avery. There was a long moment of silence and Avery knew it meant something but couldn't put his finger on what that something was. His insides were squirming all over again, and he was getting quite sick of the unease that made the short hairs on the back of his neck raise the longer Tom stared at him.

Tom was an enigma, one which Avery didn't think he could solve. He had spent the last year trying, and failing, to make the other boy just _break_ but now when he had seen the aftermath of that, all Avery wanted to do was to preserve the boy's dignity—Ravenclaws were smart enough on their own to figure out what was lacking in their own work. Tom didn't need to stoop to help them. Tom didn't need to lower himself more than what his mother or father had done by getting involved with a disgusting Muggle (Avery knew that it had to be the mother, because the children always inherited the name of the father, but he had seen the way Tom curled his fingers around the cheap metal frame that housed the portrait of the most defeated woman _ever_ and even Lestrange was uncomfortable enough not to bring it up) so Avery would make sure that Tom wouldn't. The Slytherins may have been the only ones aware of Tom's true heritage, but it didn't mean that the rest of school didn't have to _feel_ it.

"Your heritage," Avery said at long last, "it holds weight."

"Weight," Tom repeated blankly. He set his fork aside and curled his long fingers around his goblet.

"You know, people would kill to be descended from Slytherin. Families try to lay claim to it, but they can't because none of Slytherin's abilities ever manifested in their family and Parseltongue is a dead giveaway," Avery said, willing Tom to understand. "The other Slytherins—they want it, you see, to be like you (Avery cringed at the disbelieving look Tom gave him) to have your abilities and your magic and your station. I mean, you're the Heir of Slytherin, something that most pureblood families could only dream of being and the only reason people avoid you now is—well, its partly because you're a half-blood and only purebloods make it into Slytherin, but since you're a descendant... well, that's not the point. The point is, everyone wants to be like you but they can't so they either ignore you or lash out at you because they're _jealous._"

"Or frightened," Tom pointed out delicately.

Avery frowned, unable to comprehend the point Tom was trying to make. "Well, yes. Have you seen the way you do magic?"

Tom's head tilted ever so slightly as he regarded Avery. "I thought the way we did magic was the same."

"No," Avery denied, shaking his head vehemently. "Sure, we can do magic, but no one does it as perfect as you. And that's when you're just sticking to the curriculum."

A sudden thought must've just occurred to Tom because he jerked in his seat, his face giving an interesting spasm before going blank once again. Avery glanced about, uncomfortable with the telling glow that had suffused Tom's face prior to being completely shut down again. It was the same glow that enshrouded the boy when Lestrange had dug at Tom's upbringing, was the same glow that had set off the uneasy twists inside of Avery when he had handed the boy's satchel over and it was there once again as he thought about the expression on Tom's face, thought about the way he would never have access to the innermost workings of Tom's mind. The uneasiness reached a crescendo, but as Tom returned to his dinner in silence with that frustratingly blank look on his face once again, Avery realized with a start (and it wasn't the first time he realized this, but for some reason he couldn't comprehend, the need to simply _understand_ didn't diminish no matter how many times Avery tried to talk himself out of it) that he didn't _need_ to know what was going on inside Tom's head because it wasn't any of his business. Tom was the Heir of Slytherin and it simply wasn't Avery's place to try and figure him out.

The rest of dinner passed in an uncomfortable silence and before Avery took the time to notice, he and Tom managed to snag two of the best seats in front of the fire in the Common Room and were quietly and studiously scribbling away at the Potions essay due later that week. Avery scowled at his text—Potions was his least favorite class despite his Head of House teaching the subject—and promptly rolled up his parchment, capped his blotter, and stowed his textbook away in his satchel. Tom hardly even glanced up at him and Avery settled back him his armchair, reveling in the warmth of the fire as it sent waves of soothing warmth out in the natural cool of the dungeon air.

Walburga Black and Druella Rosier were seated in the other two armchairs, exchanging words and quiet laughs with one another. Avery watched Walburga absently, noticing the silver of her eyes and the sharp angles of her protruding jaw. Druella was quite the opposite of Walburga; instead of sharp angles and thick dark hair, she was smooth and soft—a little round—but with incredibly pale strands of hair that stuck to the sides of her round jaw and fell down into her eyes, tickling her lashes. Avery thought she was quite pretty, but the moment he thought on it too much, Tom was closing his Potions text with a decisive snap and stealing Avery's attention once again.

"Did you finish?" Avery asked distractedly.

"Of course. I assume you didn't."

"I hate Potions," Avery said by way of reply. "Say, do you reckon Professor Merrythought will take off points if my essay isn't the full length?"

Tom hummed softly in reply.

"All the professor like you, you know," Avery felt compelled to say and Tom was giving him that curious look once again, the one that caused his head to tilt slightly to the left as he regarded the other boy sitting next to him. Avery wished he could read him.

"Anyways, I'm knackered. You?"

"It's hardly curfew," Tom answered instead, and Avery gave a tense shrug. Tom drummed his fingers against his thigh.

"Well see you in the morning, then. Night."

Tom didn't reply.

xXx

"You're spending time with Riddle. Why are you spending time with Riddle?" Lestrange asked the moment Avery entered the dormitory. Avery paused, his brow arching slightly as he watched the other boy scowl at him; Lestrange was only half-dressed in his pajamas, his striped pajama top clutched tightly in his bony little fist. Avery waited, hoping the other boy would give him some clue as to what was making him so ill-tempered, but when Lestrange merely continued to growl at him, Avery sighed and moved over towards his trunk.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You!" Lestrange spat, tugging on his pajama top roughly. "With... with that _filthy_ half-blood!"

"He's the _Heir of Slytherin_," Avery noted as he pulled off his school robes and tossed them on the bed. Unknotting his tie, he looked at his dorm mate closely, amusement curling his lips as Lestrange did up the buttons on his pajamas unevenly. "Besides, someone has to apologize for the way you treated him the other night."

Lestrange hissed. "My cousin already did that, so don't lie to me."

"I'm not. Well, all right, so I haven't gotten around to actually doing that, but..." Avery frowned. "Have you ever noticed it?"

Lestrange blinked, confused. "What?"

"Riddle, he—" Avery made an abortive gesture with his hand and set about undressing. He had just finished putting his legs through his pajama bottoms when he finally got the nerve to say what he wanted to say. "He's a bit... off, isn't he?"

Lestrange gave a derisive laugh. "Of course he is. He's a _half-blood. _There's no reason for him to be in our house and Heir of Slytherin or not—which he _isn't_, I tell you—Dippet should have manned up and not allowed that disgusting mudblood in this House."

That wasn't what Avery meant, but he didn't think he could articulate it any better than that. All he had was a year of bullying and a day of quiet observation to go on, so he couldn't say that Riddle was really hiding something, only that Riddle's quietness unnerved him and his bursts of contained fury kept him wanting to skitter away only to come back and dismantle that mask the half-blood wore piece by piece. Even so, Avery knew that he couldn't—it wasn't his _place_—and the constant sea-saw of emotions was making his head begin to hurt.

Pulling his dressing gown over his shoulders, Avery sat on the edge of his bed, nudging his slippers with his toes. Lestrange was still muttering furiously under his breath as he threw his things around in his trunk and Avery was just trying hard to figure out why everything was so important in the first place.

"Are you friends?" Lestrange asked abruptly, and the tightness of his eyes made Avery twitch.

"What?"

"You and Riddle, are you friends?"

"Of course not!" Avery snapped.

"Well you certainly act like it! Ever since that whole Parseltongue debacle in the Common Room you've been acting like he's suddenly so _great_ and you know he's not, that he's just a dirty half-blood and—"

"He's just interesting, all right!" Avery bit out, surging to his feet. "And you know as well as I do that if he's talking to snakes then he _is_ descended from Slytherin and it doesn't matter if he's a half-blood, we still have to respect that—"

"_No!_" Lestrange bellowed, jumping to his feet and positively spitting as his face flushed with color and his eyes went manic in his anger. "I don't have to do anything! I'll hex that little liar, I'll throw every single Air Raid in that mudblood's face, I'll do whatever I want and you can't change my mind. You _won't_ change my mind and—_"_

"Merlin, what is wrong with you?" Avery cut in, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "You're acting completely mental!"

"I'm completely _normal_!" Lestrange yelled, stomping his foot angrily. "You're the one that's changed. You used to hate him, used to do everything you could just to see him crack and all of a sudden you're following him around like some _lapdog_—"

Quite suddenly, everything clicked inside of Avery's head and he could only stare at his find in quiet shock as he continued to rant and rave. His words echoed back to him, loud and vibrant in his own mind and Avery couldn't believe he had been so blind as to miss _this. _

_The point is, _Avery had said to Tom in an attempt to get the other boy to understand, _everyone wants to be like you but they can't so they either ignore you or lash out at you because they're_ _jealous._

And it was the truth. Avery may have only been twelve, but his parents had raised him to be more than some spoiled little child that got everything served to him on a silver platter. His blood demanded subservience, yes, and Avery acknowledged that, knew that his parent's would never lead him astray on matters so important. Yet just because Avery was raised a certain way didn't mean that Lestrange _was_, and as much as they had both worked together to see Riddle fall flat on his face, Avery had been slowly pulling away, hiding in the shadow of his own awe when it came to the Heir of Slytherin.

Of course Lestrange would lash out. Of course he would pick and prod and pull until Riddle finally came undone and hexed the living daylights out of the boy. But the more Avery thought about it, the more he came to realize that it wasn't just that school-boy rivalry that was fueling Lestrange's anger—he was right, Avery had been quick to fall silent and allow Riddle to take a step forward, to allow his brilliance to flow uninhibited, to keep whatever cruel remarks he could to himself.

But the fact remained that as fascinating as Tom Riddle was, Lestrange was on a war path and Avery wasn't quite sure how to fix that.

"You know you're my best friend," Avery managed once Lestrange had worn himself out, but the other boy just shot him a disgusted look and disappeared behind his bed curtains.

Avery went to bed in silence.

xXx

The next couple weeks followed much of the same pattern; Avery found himself latched to Tom's side with increasing frequency, doing his best to ignore the foul looks that Lestrange sent his way. Whenever the three would cross paths, Tom's hand would dip into the pocket of his robes, his expression shifting slightly—and the hairs on the back of Avery's neck would raise once again, the uneasiness coiling tightly in his stomach.

Tom seemed to have accepted Avery's presence without so much as a thought, as though the other boy following him around and speaking of everything and nothing was completely normal. Sometimes, when Avery wasn't too busy bemoaning his school work and wondering just how he could fix things with Lestrange, he would watch Tom, see the half-blood's face flush red at whatever sudden thought plagued his mind—and Tom was always thinking, yet none of his other thoughts came remotely close to spurring the same reaction—his eyes glittering with the surge of anger. But it was different and fleeting, so Avery didn't really have the time to question it, because in the next moment a Professor would suddenly snag his attention or Lestrange would glare at him again and Avery felt just a little more frustrated, just a little more impatient, just a little more hurt.

The odd sort of tension that was twisting around the three second year Slytherins seemed to culminate on a Friday, when Tom slid the Common Room entrance open only to freeze so suddenly it caught nearly everyone's attention.

"Avery," Riddle said, staring intently into nothing. His voice was cold fury. "I'm going to the library. Come with me."

From the corner of his eye, Avery saw Lestrange unfold himself from his seat, his jaw clenching and his dark eyes spitting fire across the room.

"What, now?" Avery asked, stuffing his quill between the pages of his Herbology text book and placing the work in his school bag.

"Yes."

With slow, precise movements, Avery stood. Everyone seemed to be tracking his movements and that distinct fluttering of unease was back with a vengeance. Swinging his satchel over his shoulder, he moved over to Tom. The moment he reached the other boy, Lestrange was on his feet, his hands curled into fists at his sides as his lips curled back into a sneer.

"_Avery," _he hissed in disgust. "What are you doing?"

Something flickered in Tom's expression and his lips quirked, a smug, self-satisfied smile staining his features.

"I believe," Tom started softly, "that he is accompanying me to the library." Tom paused, turning around to face Lestrange fully. "It is something that friends do, you know, spending time with one another. I know that it might be difficult for you to understand, as you no longer have any, but your stupidity is understood and forgiven."

It only took a second for Lestrange's fury to explode.

"_He is not your __**friend**__!_" Lestrange shouted, and he was whipping out his wand and pointing it at Tom without thought. "He was never your friend—he doesn't even like you—and how dare you, you foul, loathsome little _mudblood!"_

Tom's lips curved into a pleasant smile.

Avery felt his blood run cold.

"I don't agree," Tom said quietly, lifting a hand and placing it on Avery's shoulder. Avery tensed, but Tom only spared him that curious look once again, and the feeling of wrongness was back again. The need to pick at the mask, to understand even though it _wasn't his place_ made Avery fist his robes and alternate his stare from Tom to Lestrange and back again, because he had _told _Lestrange, had let him know just what he thought of the other boy but Lestrange was making things difficult and Avery remembered the cool way Tom peered at Lestrange every time he came across him, as though he were simply waiting.

"You don't have to," Lestrange spat. "He told me, you know, that I was his best friend, what he really thinks of you—he knows you're not natural, you're not normal—" Tom's fingers dug painfully into the thick muscle of Avery's shoulders and it took every ounce of control Avery had not to hiss in pain. "And he hates you, just as much as I do. Go on, Avery, tell the truth, tell him what you really think of him."

"Yes," Tom agreed, and his voice rang out into the shocked silence of the Common Room, knocking into Avery and pinning him down to the very depths of his being. "Go on, then. Let me know. We're friends, aren't we? _Tell the truth."_

The order slammed into Avery with the force of a wrecking ball; he felt his breath leave his lungs in a whoosh, even as Tom's body jerked oddly to the side, a vicious sneer marring his features as his nails dug painfully in Avery's shoulder. Tom righted himself almost immediately, but the sheer force of _will_ behind the statement left Avery staggering and his heart thrumming in his chest and if being Tom's friend meant never having to feel that sort of crushing dominance again, well. Avery knew what he would choose every time.

"Yes," Avery answered once he caught his breath again. "We're friends."

Lestrange's wand clattered to the floor.

Tom gave another irritated jerk of his shoulders, ducking slightly and moving to the left before turning and pinning Avery with a polite smile that made his heart quicken in his chest.

"Shall we go then?"

Avery didn't even hesitate. He moved through the Common Room entrance and out into the dungeon hallway.

xXx

"I'm not crazy, you know," Tom said some time later, twirling his wand slowly through his fingers. Avery felt trapped under Tom's inscrutable look and fingered the pages of his Herbology textbook nervously, his body twitching ever-so-slightly. "Since we're friends," Tom continued, as though unaware that the softness of his voice was putting Avery even more on edge, "I can forgive you, this once. But you should also know that I don't want to hear you say that _ever again._" Tom set his wand down against the library table and offered Avery a polite smile. "Understand?"

"Yes," Avery rushed, because it was all he could say.

Tom's smile widened, but his body gave another agitated twitch that stretched the smile into something brittle and forced. "Would you like some help with your Herbology?"

"Oh, um, no, but if you want to write my Potions essay you're more than welcome to."

Tom shook his head and reached for Avery's bag, shuffling through the contents until he pulled his Potions essay free. Avery watched with bated breath, his eyes tracking the slight furrowing of Tom's brow and listening to the soft sighs the boy gave as he read over the mess Avery was certain wouldn't get anymore than an A at best, if he was lucky. He didn't fail to notice that every so often, Tom's hand would twitch towards his wand or the fact that Riddle's shoulders would tighten infinitesimally or that his eyes would flick off to his right, sparking bright with irritation before resettling on the awful essay in front of him. Avery didn't know what it meant, but Tom was doing his best to keep that mask firmly in place, so Avery just allowed it, lifting his quill and scratching the last few inches of his Herbology essay into existence.

He didn't understand what Tom Riddle's definition of friendship was, but if it meant Avery never implying he was crazy again and getting the other boy to do his Potions homework, well, Avery could live with that.

Even if Tom Riddle did frighten him, just a little bit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter warnings: **minor gore, some sexual imagery, some overlap from previous chapter

* * *

><p>If there was one thing Harry remembered, it was the top of the Astronomy Tower.<p>

Hermione had a way of looking at him sometimes—she had done it in the aftermath of Sirius's death, when he had arrived at the Burrow that summer and learned of Bill and Fleur's engagement—that made Harry feel like he wasn't grieving hard enough, wasn't crying loud enough, wasn't losing near _enough._ He didn't have nightmares, not the way he had when Cedric had died, but then again Harry was never forced to see Sirius's body. Didn't get the chance to see his spirit until nearly two years later, during that final fight against Voldemort.

(Only it wasn't the final fight against Voldemort, because Harry found himself facing off against the monster, once again.)

She had done the same in the aftermath of Dumbledore's death. In some ways, he felt that loss harder than he had with Sirius. Spending long hours of the day with his elderly Headmaster had certainly compounded that closeness, and unlike with Sirius, where he was only given two years on the run and a handful of letters to get to know and love the man, Dumbledore had given him six years of guidance, quiet confidence and invaluable memories that allowed him to survive a maniac twice his age with twice his magical power. Was it wrong for him to hate the way people disparaged Dumbledore's name following his death? Did it mean that he loved Sirius any less because Harry remembered every detail of Dumbledore's body as he crumpled over the side of the Astronomy Tower more than he remembered the all-consuming numbness that had cloaked his mind once Sirius's body didn't re-appear on the other side of the Veil?

Hermione had looked at Harry as though he wasn't feeling correctly, but was it wrong to forgo grieving simply because he knew Sirius would hate it? Was it wrong to get angry because Dumbledore had guarded the secrets of his life so closely that no one had any right to know him better than Harry did?

That last year of Voldemort's reign had been the hardest. Hunting Horcruxes and fighting constantly with his friends—the stain of Tom Riddle's soul blurring reality and blackening thought—as well as learning about the darkness in Dumbledore's own soul... it had nearly been too much. But Harry had pushed through it and learned so much—he had become a man, Dumbledore said, had called him such without any hesitation...

Harry had never felt so wrongly deserving of such praise as he did then.

His wand was like a beacon of warmth in his hand, pressing against the life-line of his palm and slicking up towards the tips of his fingers. He had cast so many spells in his life, had forgotten some of the most simple despite the fact that he had spent weeks and months at a time learning to master them. If he went back through his school books, Harry was certain that he would remember the name, function and incantation of any spell he had learned during his seven years of schooling—but all his books had been left in the future to collect dust as Hermione figured out a way to bring him back home.

But for all the spells he had forgotten, Harry remembered some too. He remembered flicking the tip of his wand in Malfoy's direction in his fury, dueling Crabbe and Goyle in the corridors, teaching Dumbledore's Army how to defend itself against a monster that was lurking in the shadows waiting to strike. Harry _remembered_ and while there was definitely justification for the school-yard rivalry, the epic battle between Gryffindor and Slytherin, it did not change the fact that Harry claimed to be a _man_ and in his carelessness—in his aggravation and impatience and _anger_—he had regressed and became more of a child than Tom Riddle could _ever_ hope to be.

It had been so easy, casting the spell. For a moment, his mind had been caught back on that night; the moon hadn't been out, the stars weren't twinkling in the sky, and Dumbledore wasn't a pale ghostly shell of himself, caught on the vestiges of life and death—but Harry remembered the _Astronomy Tower_ and it was only so easy for Riddle's laugh to take him to those demented nightmares, flipping from one death to another—from Dumbledore's to his mother's.

The laugh was different. It was higher, prepubescent, but it held the same cruelty, triggered the same memory and brought forth the same anger. He was one and he couldn't _do_ anything—and then he was seven and getting picked on by his cousin, then nine and being yelled at by his aunt, then twelve and being called a freak by his uncle, and then he was all ages and hungry and being fed cold soup through the cat flap of his bedroom door and it had been too much.

It still didn't give him the _right._

Harry had claimed to be a man but he had hexed a child.

If Harry could put a name to what he was feeling, he would call it shame.

xXx

Harry was _sitting next to Ginny, feeling the palm of her hand press against his own._

_She was warm like Harry had never remembered her, soft and lovely and the urge to kiss her had him pressing forward, allowing the skin of his cheek to rub against her own. She turned and blinked at him, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners, reflecting an image he had forgotten to see._

Ginny, _he tried to say, and her hair was no longer flames of red, but blood pooling from the wound on her scalp, and the knife glinted absently in the fist of Harry's hand._

_Her body slumped, lifeless and cold, but the blood continued to spill, staining the soles of his trainers and coating her freckled skin crimson._

Ginny, _Harry_ _tried again, but there was a knife in his gut, splitting him from side to side and Harry staggered, tripping over the dining room chair as he tried to press his intestines back inside his burning skin._

_Harry turned, saw Tom Riddle standing with his palm caught against the jagged edge of the shattered window and _startled awake as his fist crashed into hard flagstone.

Cursing loudly, Harry tried to get his bearings and was surprised to find himself curled up against Fat Lady's portrait. He didn't remember getting there, but then again, Harry couldn't remember a lot of things (or just willfully forgot, if it was easier). His head was caught in the fog, the nightmare tasting metallic on his tongue, and for a brief moment, Harry wished that he was back in the safety of the Gryffindor Common Room, sitting next to the fire with Ginny pressed against his side while Ron and Hermione bickered with one another.

Even if it was impossible.

Staggering to his feet, Harry ignored the throbbing in his fist and the ache on the bridge of his nose. The thick metal of his glasses had dug into the side of his face, leaving a pink rounded indent in the soft of his skin. He wasn't sure how much time had passed—days could have gone by with how long he had spent hearing Tom's words echo through his mind over and over again—_I never should have saved you—_and the shame rose once again, biting at his insides with all the pain of a knife cutting into his flesh and suddenly, Harry flinched, the horrible nightmare coming to the forefront of his mind once again.

He didn't want to think about it, couldn't imagine ever having dreamt of Ginny _dying_. Harry had dreamt of Ginny before—of kissing her mouth and feeling the soft swell of her hips under his hands and the press of her breasts against his chest, upon his lips_._ But never had he dreamt of holding her then killing her, or being killed by the boy who had haunted them both when they were but eleven and twelve and—

Harry slumped heavily against the wall, caught between two suits of armor.

He needed to get his head right. Needed to stop the tidal wave of thoughts making it difficult to think. It had been so long since he had last thought of Ginny. Not since his birthday—or rather, not since Hermione had brought up his birthday and when he thought about it, it hadn't been so long ago. Time might not have seemed so linear when he was lost in his shame and guilt, but it still _existed_ and Harry knew that not so much time had passed for Ginny to be a distant memory.

"Bloody _hell,"_ Harry muttered, pushing at his glasses and massaging his eyes.

What would Hermione say in this situation? _I honestly don't think it's anything to worry about, _Harry imagined her whispering to him, except her eyes would be wide with despair and her lip would be worried between her teeth, _most dreams, as you know, deal with what we are consciously unwilling or unable to acknowledge, so our subconscious allows these fears or desires to manifest themselves into physical form while we dream._

Harry could visualize her puzzling out the metaphor—and he wanted to go along with the voice inside his head, only it became much too hard to _think_ and Harry supposed there was a reason why he was consciously unable to recognize whatever the nightmare suggested. Of course, there was always the possibility that it was _just_ a nightmare...

When the throbbing of his temples reminded him of the throbbing in his fist, Harry decided to just ignore it all. Pushing away from the wall, he moved down the hall, his legs still prickling with that brittle fragility—a trip to the Hospital Wing would have been wonderful, but as much as Harry could manipulate his environment, he was certain that the missing potions would be noticed soon. Half of him, one full up with cruel anger, wanted Tom Riddle to deal with the consequences of _stealing_, but Harry could remember Tom's words so clearly it hurt.

_I never should have saved you._

Tom had stolen potions for him. For _him._ And Harry had rewarded him by getting caught up in his anger, caught up in his memories, caught up in his—

Harry blinked.

—_nightmares._

An odd sense of disgust crept over Harry's skin and he sighed, rubbing at the pressure building in his eyes. What was he supposed to be thinking about? If it wasn't one nightmare it was the other and when it wasn't _that_, it was the _guilt_ because he had hexed Tom Riddle—not once, but _twice_ and the boy had _saved him._

The revelation had been the same as before, but it held a different feeling to it now. It was more than just being genuine, Harry knew. It would take more than flinging himself back into Tom's presence and throwing out an insincere apology. As guilty as Harry felt, as much as he wished he could turn back time—and wasn't _that_ an ironic thought—he knew that he couldn't. He didn't have the magic or the memory or the formula; instead all he was left with was the twisting feeling of failure coasting right alongside his shame and the horrible vindication that made him so much less of a man.

Harry didn't want to admit to himself just how wonderful it had felt to silence the boy, to be able to _do_ _something_ against the chilling laughter the Dementors were always willing to pound into his head with his mother's screams. He shouldn't have felt that way and Tom had made certain to remind him exactly _why—I never should have saved you—_and if Tom never should have saved Harry didn't that mean Harry should do all he could to save Tom?

_Honestly, Harry, it's why you're there in the first place, _Hermione whispered in his head. And even if the voice wasn't real, even though Harry couldn't reach out his hands and wrap his arms around Hermione's thin shoulders, it didn't change the fact that those words comforted him down to the very marrow of his bones.

The revelation may have had a different flavor and the difference didn't make anything that much easier, but Harry _did_ remember why he was there in the first place. _It's just easier, I think, when you know you can come back, _except there wasn't a chance of that, not yet, and Harry had made a promise with all his friends to unravel a future that they both loved and hated just to change a single person. That promise held less weight now, but it still rung bright and true in Harry's mind. He might not have felt the determination, but Harry was sure as hell going to act on it—he had acted on less before, after all. He had willingly died feeling nothing but a cold numbness blanketing love and the tiniest bit of fear—_everyone just had to make it, they just __**had to**__—_so time-traveling and helping a child based on the fear of his entire future being destroyed (_and, _a tiny voice whispered, _the hope that it can be __**better**__) _was all Harry _needed._ Fear could move people to do spectacular things. Lord Voldemort had taught him that.

When the reason for the ache in Harry's stomach shifted from guilt to genuine hunger, he found himself moving faster down the corridors, listening as the castle seemed to come alive. The sun streamed in through the windows in soft bursts of light; the sky was burning a colorful pink Harry couldn't see, the soft serenity of the sight at odds with the horror that Harry was vaguely aware of happening elsewhere in England. His legs still ached, but he could walk just fine, and before Harry could take a proper note of it, he found himself caught in the rush of the students as they entered the Great Hall for dinner.

The gnawing in his stomach was suddenly back as Harry shifted away from the children and pressed himself against the walls closest to the door. He watched the children all chatter to one another, quietly subdued as the Professors sat in a neat little row at the top of the hall, staring down at all of their students. Shadows clung to the structure of their faces—fear, Harry recognized, because he recalled looking up at the High Table time and again only to see that fearful look reflected back at him since the moment of Voldemort's resurrection in his fourth year.

Not all the seats were filled; with a jolt, Harry recognized Professor Slughorn sitting directly next to the empty Headmaster's chair. To the left of him was another man—one with dark hair and light eyes that seemed content to listen to whatever Slughorn had to say to him. Slughorn was thinner now with fewer wrinkles on his face but Harry caught sight of the same clever glint in his eyes that spoke of greed and collection.

Or maybe, Harry thought, he was just projecting what he remembered of the Professor onto him, because Slughorn looked just as weary and as frightened as all the other Professors.

Snatching his gaze away, Harry scanned the rest of the Great Hall, an uncomfortable feeling settling over him. Would he recognize anybody? Would he be able to pick out the faces of witches and wizards he had met in the future and match them to their younger counterparts? Harry peered carefully at the Gryffindor table, hoping that he would see someone familiar—he didn't know who, exactly, and the longer he searched for a face he wanted to recognize, the more he dreaded finding someone he did.

It wasn't like Tom, Harry thought, turning his attention towards the Slytherin table. If he recognized someone from his past, what would it matter? It wasn't like he could talk to anyon_e—_it was one of the parameters of the spell, one which Hermione had not been able counter and hadn't put the effort into trying to do so. What did it matter if the only person Harry could talk to and interact with was Tom Riddle? After all, it wasn't like Harry was trying to change anyone else. It wasn't like he had gone back in time with the intention of making sure every Death Eater known to the Wizarding world suddenly had a change of heart simply from knowing Harry existed and cared.

No. It was more of the ripple affect—by dipping his fingers into the water, the disturbance would ripple outwards, affecting everything that Tom had come into contact with. Ron had likened it to disturbing the foundation enough that the whole structure of the future would come crumbling down around them, and as terrifying as that was, it was what Harry was aiming for in the first place. So what if his only interaction in the past would be Tom Riddle? Harry would handle it. Even if it was shaping up to be a pretty sad existence.

xXx

Harry found Tom sitting near the end of the Slytherin table, talking quietly with a boy with light hair and wide shoulders. He hesitated, watching silently as Tom regarded the other boy with a blank look—Harry felt his insides squirm, because he recognized that look, knew that Tom only gave it to be people he was trying to shut out and not for the first time, Harry wished he knew what the younger boy was thinking.

Tossing his shoulders back in determination, he moved closer to the table, hovering just out of Tom's line of sight as the conversation filtered into his ears.

"...everyone wants to be like you but they can't so they either ignore you or lash out at you because they're _jealous,_" the boy said, and Harry scowled in irritation. What in Merlin's name was that boy talking about?

"Or frightened," Tom pointed out delicately, and Harry's entire body went cold.

It was common knowledge that Voldemort liked to capitalize on people's fear—he _ruled_ by fear, quite liberal with his wand and the Cruciatus Curse. But still, to think that Tom was already noticing people's inherent _fear_ of him... to think that he was already starting to use it against others... well. Harry wasn't quite sure how to feel about that.

_So change it, _a voice whispered in his head, and Harry knew that was what he needed to do, but the fact that Riddle was only twelve and manipulating people's fear... had his time in the past really been that useless? Tom had been cruel to those other children in his orphanage, had already known that revenge not only made him feel superior, but untouchable, because people could point fingers but in the end they couldn't really harm him. And now, there was some child, some little insignificant person telling Tom that people _wanted to be him_—is there where his grandiose sense of self-worth had come from? Or had these opinions merely added to Tom's already growing opinion of himself?

Harry hated that he didn't know the answer.

"Hello Tom," Harry interrupted a few moments later, and Tom's whole body jerked, his eyes flashing as he went still. Tom gazed at the Slytherin boy in front of him, blinking once then twice then three times before turning to his food and very methodically biting into his roasted potatoes.

"All right then," Harry said loudly, making himself comfortable on the bench. "We can do this, if you want. It's not like I have anywhere to be any time soon."

Tom didn't even twitch.

"It's funny, you know, how things have changed." Harry picked up a drumstick and nibbled on it, forcefully ignoring the wrenching hunger that twisted his stomach at the taste of the herb-roasted chicken. "You told me you didn't have friends."

Tom continued to eat.

"He looks familiar, this boy," Harry continued at length, finishing off his chicken and reaching for another piece. "I might have seen him somewhere before. Tell me, is he nice to you? Or has he been one of those who continually made life miserable for you because of your blood status? Because I'll tell you—"

"We're leaving," Tom said abruptly, setting his utensils aside and rising to his feet. The other boy blinked up at him, his fork poised halfway to his mouth and a look of utter bemusement marring his features.

"Um, now? Because I'm still hungry."

"Yes, now," Tom agreed placidly, focused so intently on the other boy that Harry could only stare. "Besides, we really need to write our Potions essay since it's due at the end of the week..."

The other boy groaned but quickly agreed, shoving to his feet and following Tom out of the Great Hall.

Harry remained seated, staring blankly at the chicken in his hand. The girl on his left bumped his arm while reaching to scoop more vegetables onto her plate but didn't seem to notice. The chatter of the Great Hall was soft, a quiet din that pressed down on Harry from all sides, but the clear dismissal in Riddle's actions, the simple fact that he had just ignored him...

Harry placed his half-eaten chicken leg on an empty plate and lifted his eyes to the rafters, marveling at the wispy clouds that drifted across the darkening sky. Enchanted stars began twinkling prettily, if dimly, and Harry could only stare into his colorless world, no longer hungry. Sitting under the bright silver and green of Slytherin banners, Harry's fingers curled into tight fists against the tabletop.

The world went quiet.

xXx

Tom was ignoring him.

No matter how Harry tried to approach the boy, Riddle's face would go dark, then blank, and act as though Harry never existed. Harry did all kinds of things to get the boy to talk to him again but after being shut down time after time, Harry felt his patience starting to wear thin. Tom was always in the presence of that light-haired boy now and although Harry didn't quite care—none of their conversations were ever rife with the tension that had been present when Harry stumbled upon them at dinner all those nights ago—it was starting to bother him that he could never find Tom by himself.

For all Harry had been willing to go head to head with the stubborn twelve-year-old, battering against the blank exterior that Tom so easily put up, this was getting to be a bit ridiculous.

Harry knew why, of course. He could even hear that little voice of Hermione's whispering to him, telling him to stop being so stubborn and just man up. But with each passing day, Harry felt like less and less of a man and more like a child, stubbornly clinging to his pride and allowing it to override his guilt. The words he needed to speak were stuck deep in his throat and no amount of impulsive courage would force them out into the open air.

Being angry was easier.

xXx

Harry avoided Tom's classes.

The memories were just too fresh, too haunting, too hurting. The flashes of green atop the Astronomy Tower kept that pressure coming back—always to his lungs—and despite Harry's desire to get Tom to just _listen, _there were some people Harry was not prepared to see.

More often than not, Harry found himself lost in his thoughts. Sitting against the cool flagstone between suits of armor or absently taking in the conversations of the portraits on the walls—so many details were filtering into his mind, images of his own time in the castle superimposing themselves on the empty halls in front of him.

It was as though his mind were spitting out images Harry had completely forgotten about; Hermione pushing past Harry and Ron as Ron insulted the girl for her intelligence, Harry catching Hagrid as he dragged large Christmas trees into the Great Hall, Colin Creevey lifting his camera up and stealing an image of Harry's life before Harry even had a chance to protest... hexing Malfoy, being berated by Snape, noticing Cho Chang for the first time, finding a pair of Luna's earrings dangling from the bottom of a portrait, holding Neville back as he tried to dive at Malfoy for insulting his parents... there were so many memories, so many thoughts and Harry's heart was aching at the thought of them.

None of his friends were there. Ron and Hermione had promised to show up soon, and although Harry was aware that he hadn't been in the past for long—a week, if that—he missed his friends with an intensity that left him startled.

There was no respite from his thoughts. Harry was beginning to hate the constant see-saw between guilt and anger and longing. Pulling the leather pouch to the front of his chest, Harry retrieved the small vial of memories. He peered at them, feeling the warm weight of the glass in his hands. The stopper had been spelled closed, the glass enchanted to be unbreakable. There was a faint glow around the vial, one directly related to the potency of the memories. Harry remembered Dumbledore pulling memories from his own head, the bright silver glow that tangled around the tip of the Elder Wand, but that's all the color was—a memory. Even now, sitting in Hogwarts, everything was caught in the horrifying grayscale—resentment coiled in his gut, but Dumbledore's praise was back in his head, making him feel so much more guilty—and not for the first time, Harry wished for _color._

The bell rang shrilly throughout the castle and Harry pushed himself off the floor and to his feet. Tucking the memories back in his pouch, Harry tugged it closed and moved further along down the hall. The door opened and a group of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins exited the classroom, the sudden flash of star-spackled robes making Harry's heart seize. Hurrying further down the hall, Harry pressed himself to the wall, staring intently at a portrait of a little witch with tight dark curls sitting upon a unicorn. The students meandered past him, not noticing the way his heart was beating rapidly against his sternum or the sweat slicking his palms. No one noticed him; no one realized he was there, no one except for _Tom_—

Harry's hand shot out and caught a fistful of robes, forcing the boy to a stop.

"Is something the matter?" Tom's friend asked, turning around to peer at him. Tom blinked.

"Just had a thought," Tom replied, twisting his shoulders.

Tom's friend frowned at him. "Oh."

"I need to talk to you," Harry said, his fingers tightening in Tom's robes. Tom made to step away again, but Harry only held tighter and Tom's lips twitched down into a frown.

"Well," Tom's friend continued uncertainly, shifting from foot to foot. "Are you finished thinking? Because we're going to be late for Charms..."

"I am," Tom answered and for the first time in a week, he caught Harry's eye. "And I really don't want to be late."

Jaw clenching, Harry stared at Tom hard. It would be so simple to just tug Tom around the corner and force him to listen, but at the same time, Tom's friend would be sure to notice. Even so, it had been the first time that Harry had ever gotten his hands on Tom... the boy had been doing everything in his power to avoid Harry and act as though he didn't exist. Despite his own feelings on the matter, Harry knew why he had gone back in time, knew that even though he couldn't take back hexing Tom, he could at least talk to him about it... but Tom was avoiding him. Ignoring him. Harry knew that if he let Tom go now, the boy would continue on with his behavior. Harry didn't want to be ignored anymore, didn't want to feel the utter frustration that had continuously plagued him, yet the words were still stuck in his throat, unable to be properly dislodged, unable to make things better and, Merlin, Tom's _laughter..._

With a jolt of regret and deep self-loathing, Harry released Tom, his fingers prickling as they hung limply by his side. Tom hesitated for only second, catching his friend's eye and offering him a politely disinterested smile.

Harry didn't wait to see Tom disappear. He turned on his heel and left.

xXx

The first time Harry noticed the boy with dark hair and even darker eyes Tom was listening to his new shadow with barely disguised disinterest, the fingers of one hand drumming against his thigh while the other gripped the strap of his satchel. Harry wasn't sure what Tom was thinking, nor did it matter; Harry's own fingers were aching from gripping the unpolished wood of a school broom too tightly, doing his best to ignore the way the broom turned too slowly, the way the wind didn't bite into his skin hard enough or fast enough or cold enough. He had flown to clear his mind, but all flying seemed to do was etch the fact that he was trapped in the past so deeply into his heart it hurt, and Harry's mood had gone from constantly irritated—as was the norm over the last few days—to completely furious over the course of an hour. With no one to take it out on, the last thing Harry wanted to do was follow Tom around just to be ignored, but Dumbledore's words had echoed on a loop through his head, competing so thoroughly with Tom's that Harry knew if he didn't talk to the boy and soon, he was going to explode.

Tom's fingers were caked it dirt and there was a streak of mud on his friend's face, but neither seemed to notice what was going on around them until the boy with the too dark hair shoulder-checked the light haired boy, causing him to stumble.

Tom's hand shot out and gripped his friend by the elbow, his eyes sparkling with unsuppressed glee as he caught the eye of the other boy.

"Are you all right, Avery?" Tom asked, patting his friend on the shoulder.

The blond boy—_Avery_, Harry corrected mentally, crossing his arms across his chest as he hovered just out of sight—nodded, expression tight.

"Lestrange," Avery said, pulling away from Tom and stepping forward. "What—"

"Sorry," Lestrange said darkly, completely unapologetic, "I didn't see you there. Then again it's not like I actually _want_ to see purebloods mucking about with the _filth._"

Tom smiled, his hand disappearing into the pocket of his robes.

"All right, now look—"

"Tom," Harry called out quite suddenly, and Tom's eyes snapped over to him, narrowing slightly. "Don't."

Tom stilled, his mouth pulling into a flat, unimpressed line. Avery and Lestrange either didn't notice or didn't care, what with the way they were still staring each other down, talking furiously at one another. Harry moved forward, hoping that now would be the time when he could just _talk—_it certainly wasn't ideal, not with the way that hexes could start flying at any moment (_Harry remembered the pain of the Cruciatus Curse burning under his skin, remembered the agony of Voldemort's hatred as his magic whipped through the air, maiming and hurting and killing and Harry wanted to forget it, wanted to separate the image of Voldemort superimposed over Tom but he __**couldn't**__ and he hated himself, just a little bit more_) but Harry was determined and pure stubbornness had gotten him through situations so much worse than this. They were only children, after all, and Harry was nineteen (_a man, but not_) and he was so much more experienced than any of them.

He pulled alongside Tom and simply stared at the boys, mentally flinching at the way Lestrange threw around the word mudblood—if Hermione were here, and Lestrange were a little bit older, she probably would have smacked him... there was no forgiveness, not when Hermione was just as capable, if not more so, than many of the purebloods out there... not when Voldemort had slapped them all with the Muggleborn Registration Act, treating them like complete and utter _animals—_

"You're being stupid," Avery said at last, frustrated and brimming with anger. "I don't want to fight with you."

"Look," Harry said, stepping in front of Tom and looking down at him. "I know you're mad at me, and I know isn't really the best time, but I need to talk to you."

"Oh, _I'm_ being stupid?" Lestrange asked and his wand was twirling lazily in his hand, the threat hanging in the air quiet, but so very tangible. "I'm not the one hanging out with a—"

"What's the meaning of all this noise?" someone cut in sternly. Harry turned, pausing as he caught sight of the same man he had seen so many times at the head table—dark haired and light-eyed—with his arms folded across his chest and a frown on his face.

"_Nothing,_" Lestrange spat, stuffing his wand in his robes hastily.

The man arched an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing, sir," Tom corrected calmly_, _a charmingly apologetic smile fixing itself upon his face. "We're really very sorry, Professor Beery, we didn't realize we were making such a commotion." Tom paused. "We didn't mean to fight, sir."

The professor gave Tom a pleasant smile, shaking his head. "Not to worry, Mr. Riddle. I was a young boy once too, you know, and I know that you are liable to disagree with your friends from time to time. But if I see anyone pull a wand again, I'll be taking points and giving detentions. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Tom and Avery chorused and Lestrange shot the two a foul glare before following suit.

Professor Beery gave the three another pleasant smile. "Well, off you go then. And remember, no fighting."

Lestrange hissed, storming to the castle, shooting one last loathsome look to Avery. Harry frowned, watching as Avery seemed to shrink in on himself, shifting from foot to foot—something Harry noticed he did when he wasn't quite sure what to do or what to say—before smiling tremulously at Tom and motioning towards the castle.

"I'm not very hungry," Avery said, falling in step next to Tom. "Do you mind if we skip lunch?"

"No," Tom replied, face inscrutable as they walked away from their Professor.

"Tom," Harry tried, just as Avery said, "Oh, good. Think you can help me with that Sticking Charm? Because I can't—"

"_Tom,_" Harry called again, reaching out to grab the boy by his shoulder, but Tom ducked under his hand and moved to the other side of Avery, ignoring Harry's frustrated sigh and Avery's confused stare.

"You know what, _fine_!" Harry burst out, all of his frustration and anger exploding outwards and stinging his face warm. Tom didn't even acknowledge his outburst, just continued walking from the Greenhouses to the castle, fingers curled around the strap of his satchel as the sun peeked through the thick of the clouds in the sky. "Just go. I don't care anymore."

Harry wasn't sure where he wanted to go, but it definitely wasn't with Tom. Stalking off in the opposite direction, Harry found himself being pulled back towards the Quidditch Pitch and more annoyance stabbed through him, infecting his mind like poison.

He was tired of this. Tired of following around Tom Riddle. Tired of being the only one to reach out and attempting to make things work. Now, more than ever, he wished he had convinced Ron or Hermione to come instead—_but it had to be me, didn't it? _Harry thought derisively. _It's __**always**__ been me._

Just because it had been that way for as long as Harry remembered didn't mean that it had to be that way _now._ Hermione would have been the better option—the _smarter _option. She wouldn't have gotten wrapped up in memories of the past, wouldn't have let her nightmares get the better of her or hex a _child—_and if she had slipped up, she would been able to swallow her pride so much quicker, would have apologized so much _faster_. She would, Harry imagined, be showering Tom Riddle with all the love and adoration he deserved—they were so alike in their brilliance, they would have had something to bond over, would be able to learn to trust one another so much _faster—_and Ron, for all of his emotional inadequacy, understood family better than Harry ever could. Ron might not have liked being back in time or spending time with a young Voldemort, but he would have made himself _family, _or something close to it, and Harry couldn't stop the self-loathing from overcoming his senses once again.

He wanted to talk to someone. Wanted someone to rant and rave at, because how could he be so _pathetic?_ The guilt was supposed to be enough to get him to apologize, but every time he had the chance, Harry forced the words back down. Instead he tried to push Tom in the direction that Harry wanted him to be pushed and Tom was resisting every step of the way. Sure, Tom may have been looking at him now, but behind the colorless wall that seemed to completely enshroud Tom, Harry could see the loathing, the complete and utter _hatred_ that clotted all of Tom's veins and made the boy want to wish Harry out of existence. Harry knew, more than anything, that Tom didn't want him there anymore—and what was it Tom had said?

_You're just like them._

_Them, _Tom had said, and Harry wasn't an idiot. He knew who Tom was comparing him to. The guilt manifested ten-fold.

Groaning loudly, Harry collapsed on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, laying spread eagle as he stared up at the sky.

There was simply nothing he could do. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that he should care about Tom Riddle, he kept pushing back, doing whatever he could to keep the boy at a distance. If apologizing was the only way to fix things, Harry should have done it already. But he didn't. Blurting out an apology should have been easier than breathing, but he couldn't and no matter how Harry tried to steer things, Tom wasn't letting him.

Harry sighed deeply, turning to his side. His fingers curled into the grass, the blades tickling his cheek and sending his glass askew.

Ever since he had arrived in the past, things had only gone from bad to worse.

For the first time in a long time, Harry wasn't sure how to fix it.

xXx

Lestrange was reaching his boiling point.

Tom could see it clear as day; what had started as foul glares directed at him had turned into purposeful shoulder checks and degrading words. Tom would always dip his hand into the pocket of his robe and withdraw his wand—not to curse, but to threaten, because for all Tom wanted to see Lestrange receive his punishment, Tom could not go through with it surrounded by witnesses. Avery might have found Tom curious, but if Tom so much as indicated that he wanted to hex Lestrange until he was crying out apologetic platitudes, Avery wouldn't hesitate to run back to his pseudo friend.

Not that he minded. Tom missed the times when he could walk around the castle without anyone following him and questioning what he was doing—researching the best way to get Lestrange back had been difficult with Avery sticking to him at every moment of the day, but it hardly mattered. Tom would have much rather dealt with Avery asking annoying questions and pretending to be friends than... well... _him._

And _he_ was starting to be a problem. No matter the time of day, Tom would always see him hanging in his periphery, waiting for a moment when Tom would be alone so that they could talk.

Tom didn't want to talk. The mere thought of looking that specter in the face, the thought of listening to whatever lie was going to come out of his mouth... Tom didn't want to hear it. The phantom pain of the stinging hex still whipped across his skin, the memory of his sternum being hit with that magical weight... it clouded Tom's mind, left him furious and angry and wanting revenge, but Tom was still too young, still too inexperienced and he knew that he wouldn't win. Not against the specter. Not against the teenager whose wand cut through the air in rapid fire movements as though used to flinging his magic about without a thought.

For days Tom had kept the memory of the event in his mind, turning it over at all hours of the day—when Avery had returned his satchel to him, Tom felt fury heating his blood and darkening his gaze, but he couldn't keep it on his face, not when Avery kept throwing uncertain and discomfiting looks in his direction. So Tom hid it behind the mask that he had perfected whenever Mrs. Cole would sweep down on him and accuse him of hurting another orphan, or when things just a little too funny took place. He was perfectly polite to his new friend, perfectly polite to the other students and the more Avery hung out with Tom, the more the other Slytherins stepped back from their twisted little hierarchy and started talking to him.

His Muggle blood was still disparaged. Lestrange had thought of new and inventive ways of doing so; the older students were all walking on eggshells around him, completely aware that things were getting close to exploding—there was only so much, after all, that Lestrange was willing to take, but despite Tom's own fury, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than press his wand to Lestrange's skin and hex him until it hurt, Tom was patient. He had been patient with Billy Stubbs, with Amy and Dennis. At Hogwarts, things were different. With so many Professors aware of what the students got up to, simply killing someone's stupid pet wasn't going to be forgiven with a well spoken lie and a charming smile. Tom knew that if something happened and he was caught, he could very well be expelled—Dumbledore had told him as much when he had revealed to Tom that he was a wizard, and Tom knew better than to simply disregard the warning. Especially when Dumbledore disliked Tom as much as he did.

But while Tom was patient and could bury his frustration under layers of apathy and polite disinterest, Lestrange could not, and Tom knew the boy would explode soon. Magic or not, Lestrange was like any other child Tom had ever met—spoiled, selfish, quick to anger and so very easy to manipulate.

Tom certainly hadn't meant to steal Lestrange's best friend away from him, but if Lestrange wanted to blame him for it Tom was more than willing to accept responsibility. He did so love seeing his new pseudo friendship driving the boy completely and utterly mad. Lestrange's fury held the flavor of victory, one which pushed aside all other thoughts and emotions—there was no time for thinking about that lying specter, for thinking about how Avery's constant presence was wearing on Tom, no time to think about the Air Raids that left Tom's heart quivering in fear—all he could do was relish in his triumph, relish in the fact that he didn't even have to lift a finger and already, Lestrange was being driven out of his mind. It might not have been the same as physhically hurting him. It might not have made Tom nearly as pleased, but it _helped_ and Tom wasn't one to waste opportunities.

Lestrange may not have had a rabbit, but he certainly had a friend and that, Tom thought, was better than nothing.

xXx

The Common Room was unnaturally warm.

Tom could feel the sweat gathering under the thick of his arms, spotting the fabric of his oxford shirt. The other students didn't look nearly as uncomfortable as him, but there were some who had completely undone their ties, rolled up their sleeves and removed their shirts from the waist band of their trousers.

"Why is it so _hot_ in here?" Avery whined, tossing his homework onto one of the work tables and slumping into a hard-backed chair.

"Heating charm gone wrong," a fourth year with pretty eyes and soft curls replied from one table over as she adjusted her heavy skirts. "The Prefects have been in a tizzy trying to get it reversed, but no one has been able to do anything. No one can find Professor Slughorn either, so someone's been sent to get the Head Boy."

"Isn't the Head Boy a Gryffindor?" Avery asked, shucking off his robe and draping it over the back of his chair.

The girl laughed. "Yes, but even the Prefects of the other houses know where each others Common Rooms are—you know, in case of an emergency."

"Oh," Avery replied, dipping his quill into his ink pot. "I guess that's fair."

"Besides, I hear the Head Boy is really nice—"

"And _really_ handsome," a different girl interrupted, causing Avery to pull a face and rapidly tune out that conversation. The girls tittered behind him, and Avery groaned, opening his bag to pull out his homework.

"I don't understand why girls always have to talk about boys," Avery complained.

"Do you have your Defense textbook?" Tom inquired, ignoring Avery's complaints as he shuffled through his knapsack. "I can't seem to find mine."

Avery blinked and Tom offered him a patient look. "Oh, um, no. I lent mine to Dolohov because he accidentally set his on fire."

Tom hummed thoughtfully.

"Maybe you left it in the dormitory?" Avery suggested as he pulled out his Herbology textbook and swiftly opened it to the chapter on mandrakes—Tom nodded absently, shoving away from the table and heading to his dormitory.

The dormitory was, thankfully, cooler than the Common Room, but the uncomfortable heat still caused sweat to cling to the fine hairs of Tom's upper lip. Wiping at it absently, Tom opened his trunk and sifted through the contents—he nearly cut his hand on a broken ink bottle and stifled a rush of irritation at the Transfiguration homework he refused to look at, already knowing that he would not receive the perfect O he knew he deserved. One of his uniform shirts had a huge streak of mud on the chest that Tom knew he hadn't put there himself, and the thread on one of his spare ties was unraveling enough to make Tom's eyebrow twitch, but aside from a few dirty clothes mixed in with the clean ones and some old homework assignments, Tom could not locate his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook.

Collecting his dirty clothes and ruined tie, Tom closed his trunk and set the offending articles on top of his trunk to be collected by the house elves; frowning, he gazed around his dorm room, but there was no sign of his textbook anywhere. The last place he remembered using it had been in class that day... he was certain he had placed it back in his school bag and then headed with Avery down to lunch... after that, it had been History of Magic and Tom knew it had been in his bag then, because he remembered pulling his history homework out from between the pages... and after that he had—

—left his book on the bench in the Great Hall, his defense assignment rolled up neatly atop the abandoned tome. Scowling, Tom recalled _why_ he had left it there in the first place and felt self-disgust prickle at his skin. Striding purposefully from the dormitory, he caught sight of Avery scribbling something in the margins of his Herbology textbook and one of his other dorm mates, Dolohov, sitting beside him and peppering him with questions that made Avery's hand twitch and his lips turn down into an agitated frown. Lestrange sat not a few feet away from them, but his attention was fixed on Tom, his dark eyes flashing with a dislike that warm Tom's inside with vicious glee.

Dismissing the other boy with a barely there glance, Tom strode to the Common Room entrance and slid it open—

Tom froze.

Fury coasted along his veins as he stared at the teenager in front him, his lips pressed into a thin line and his hands curled into fists at his side. The specter was leaning against the wall opposite the Common Room entrance, completely nonplussed at Tom's sudden appearance. His eyes, which were once fixed the pages of a textbook that Tom just knew belonged to _him_, slowly rose until they met Tom's—something flashed in those green eyes, something that Tom couldn't put a name to and it only made the anger that much more palpable. Tom stared for a moment more, felt the eyes of his housemates skittering over his back and did the only he could do in this instant—the only thing that would keep this specter away from him, to keep this specter from _talking to him._

"Avery," Tom said, fury coloring his voice. "I'm going to the library. Come with me."

There was the barest shuffling of movement and Tom nearly turned, but the specter's eyes had caught his and Tom couldn't look away.

"What, now?"

"Yes."

The specter frowned.

The moment felt as though it had been dragged out until forever—the specter wasn't talking, just watching Tom watch him, and Avery was taking his sweet time to get to Tom. Tom wanted the buffer, _needed_ it more than he needed anything in his life, and not for the first time, Tom could feel the self-disgust thread through his ribs and settle against his heart. Avery stopped beside Tom, fiddling with the clasp of his messily adorned robes; his bag was slung over his shoulder, his Herbology textbook shoved haphazardly into the overstuffed rucksack.

"_Avery,_" Tom heard Lestrange hiss, and the specter straightened to his full height, Tom's Defense book held loosely in the tips of his fingers. "What are you doing?"

"You can't avoid me forever, Tom," the specter said at long last, and Tom smiled, all dark irony and cruel disbelief.

"I believe that he is accompanying me to the library." _Yes, _Tom conveyed silently, triumph coloring his smile at the flush of annoyance that made the specter fold his arms across his chest, _I can. _"It is something that friends do, you know, spending time with one another. I know it might be difficult for you to understand, as you no longer have any, but your stupidity is understood and forgiven."

Lestrange _exploded._

Tom wasn't expecting the pure unadulterated _glee_ that rocked him to the core at the sight—he wanted to laugh in the other boy's face, wanted to find some way to keep it locked in everyone's memory so that they could remember this victory—seeing Lestrange so furious, so _hurt_, pleased Tom in ways that he never thought possible. He didn't think it would feel so good, hurting the other boy. He had wanted him to deal with physical pain, but Tom remembered—emotional pain had worked on Billy Stubbs, had made him withdrawn and angry and unstable, and now, Lestrange was following that pattern. Lestrange was Billy Stubbs all over again and Tom hadn't even needed to _lift a finger._ There was no magic involved, just the mere acceptance of another boy's presence...

Tom smiled, coldly pleased.

Tom settled his hand on Avery's shoulder, pressing the blunt of his nails into the developing muscle beneath his fingers. Avery twitched, but Lestrange's outburst kept Tom captivated—the specter shuffled closer, hovering just over Tom's shoulder as he stared at Lestrange, and knowing seemed to have shocked him, because he was tugging the cuff of Tom's sleeve, a scowl stealing over his face and staying there.

"Tom," the specter said, stepping in front of the young Slytherin. "What did you do to him?"

Tom continued to smile.

"And he hates you as much as I do," Lestrange spat, his wand held tightly in the fist of his fingers. "Go on, Avery, tell the truth, tell him what you really think of him."

"Yes," Tom agreed, catching his specter's eyes as his voice rang out into the silence. Magic prickled in the air, the same surge of _power_ pressing on his mind the same way it had all those months ago, when his will had so obviously broken Amy and Dennis. The feeling was heady and wonderful and Tom pushed more into it, reveling in the darkness that had the specter stilling as he stared at him. "Go on, then. Let me know. We're friends, aren't we? _Tell the truth._"

The specter's hand snapped forward just as Avery positively _crumpled_ under the weight of Tom's command—the other students gasped, a first year squeaking as she stumbled back over a chair. Hard fingers dug into the fabric of Tom's shirt, jerking him roughly to the side—Tom set his fingers in the fabric of Avery's robes, locking his knees and jolting his elbow forward, sinking it into the soft flesh of his specter's body. The teenager released Tom immediately, folding his arms over his stomach and bending at the waist as he struggled to breathe—euphoria colored Tom's face red, and he looked to Avery, entranced as the boy drew in Tom's command and made it his own.

"Yes," Avery breathed. "We're friends."

"_Tom_," the specter said, reaching forward, but Tom ducked under his hand and moved to the other side of Avery, smiling politely.

"Shall we go then?"

Tom couldn't place the sheer amount of joy at the sight of Avery hastening to follow his suggestion. No victory had ever been so public, so dramatically _spectacular_...

The walk to the library was filled with quiet tension; Avery was positively scared out of his wits—he kept sending Tom quick, side-long glances as though he were afraid to look at him too long, and quite suddenly, Tom was reminded of what Lestrange had yelled at him from across the Common Room.

_He told me, you know, that I was his best friend, what he really thinks of you... he knows you're not natural, you're not normal—_

And there were thoughts in his head, things Tom had forgotten about in the aftermath of becoming a wizard, because none of the orphans bothered him any more, not when Amy and Dennis looked at him with terror in their eyes and a memory that made them not-right in the opinion of everyone else. Somewhere along the line, not natural had turned into insane, with psychologists and doctors come to see him, day after day after day—always when the other children got hurt, always when there was no explanation for things and Tom could always smile, charming and polite, but so very deceitful...

"I'm not crazy, you know," Tom said softly, once they were settled at the table. Avery seemed to sink in on himself, his eyes trained on the book in front of him as he picked at the pages. Tom felt cool inside. "Since we're friends, I can forgive you, this once. But you should also know that I don't want to hear you say that _ever. again._" Tom paused long enough to set his wand down on the table and look closely at his new friend. "Understand?"

"Yes," Avery said, and Tom was very nearly pleased, but suddenly his specter was pulling out the chair beside Tom, his elbows planted firmly on the table. Tom didn't stop to look at him, just smiled wider and more forcefully. He could feel the specter's eyes on him, dark and unpleasant, so he fished for something to occupy his time with, something to show the specter that no matter how many times he followed him around or tried to appeal to him, Tom wouldn't allow it. There was no way he would forgive the specter, not after what he had done. Not after the things he had _said._

"Tom," the specter said sometime later, and Tom's hand automatically twitched towards his wand. Avery glanced up from his Herbology assignment, but Tom resettled and stared at the scratchy writing in front of him.

The specter sighed. "That's fine, you can ignore me. I was sort of expecting it, anyways."

Tom scratched out a badly written sentence.

"You really frustrated me," the specter confessed, and Tom glared at the parchment in front of him. "Do you remember what I told you, when I got here?"

_Yes, _Tom thought, because that was the day Billy changed beyond all recognition. _I strangled his rabbit. You told me I really shouldn't have done that. You said that you were going to save me._

"I lied."

The quill snapped.

"Bloody—Tom, your _hand_," Avery said, reaching forward and uncurling Tom's fist. Cartilage dug into the soft flesh of Tom's palm, drawing blood. The wounds stung as ink and open air pressed again them, but Tom couldn't think of the way his blood swelled into tiny beads until it reached full saturation and spilled along the lines of palm. He couldn't think of the way Avery was fretting, hastily stuffing his things into his school bag, reaching and tugging Tom up by his elbow to usher him to the Hospital Wing.

Everything was still inside Tom, still and empty and _blank_ and all he could hear were the specter's words echoing through his mind on a continuous loop.

_I'm here to save you._

_I lied._

_I'm here to __**save **__you._

_I __**lied**__._

_I'm __**here**__—_

—_for you, Tom._

—_to save__** you**__._

Except—

_I lied._

Tom would never forgive him.

xXx

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Harry knew they had been the wrong thing to say.

He sat, frozen and unsure, going over the conversation in his head, trying see past the utter blankness that had sunk its talons into Tom and _stayed there_—he thought back to when he came to in Tom's dormitory, legs brutally mangled and bleeding, thought back to the question Tom had asked, thought back to the response he had stolen from someone long dead, thought back to the way he had flipped out on Tom, trapped in his own memories—and then there was something in his head, something from a year ago when Tom was eleven and already understanding the refreshing taste of revenge. Harry thought back to how he had muscled his way into Tom's life without regard for his feelings or wishes, pulling on every scrap of memory he could because Tom's reaction wasn't _right—_

_I'm here to save you, _Harry had said, and there was a flicker of something in Tom's expression, something close to hope__—__

_Save me? From what?_

Except it was quickly bandaged over with derision, because even though Harry knew what Tom needed to be saved from, Tom _didn't_ and what reason did he have to trust Harry?_  
><em>

_Ask me when you're older, _Harry had replied, the ghost of his own youth holding him close, _I'll tell you then._

But then there was—_what would you know? You __**left**__—_and Hermione's words—_at least we know he's not so far out of reach that he doesn't have some hope of things getting better—_were ringing in his ears, loud and furious and Harry's heart was as heavy as stone.

_I lied, _Harry had said, but hadn't told Riddle what about and now—

Tom had always been suspicious of Harry, had never put his trust in him. And now Harry had given him the perfect reason as to why things were the way they were. Now Harry had created a chasm between them so deep and wide, there was no possible way of getting across. There was no such thing as forgiveness, not for Tom Riddle. There was only hate and revenge and Harry had no doubt that Tom would do everything in his power to get Harry back.

But Harry knew what it was like to fight against Tom, knew what it was like to push with all his might against Tom's iron-clad will and—

Harry would win. No matter what type of pressure Tom had put on Harry—as a child or an adult—Harry had always been _stronger_ and that wasn't going to change, regardless of whether Tom knew the flavor of forgiveness or could only bleed hate. Harry was different from him and knew, more than anything, that what wasn't known could be taught, and Tom Riddle had always been an excellent learner.

Harry was going to do what he should have done from the beginning.

He was going to forgive Lord Voldemort.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, favorited and alerted. I really do appreciate it whether its praise or constructive criticism, so thank you. I haven't been responding to reviews, but that's just because I'm lazy. Kind of. Mostly. Entirely. So, um. Yeah.

Dear ffnet,

What the hell is up with you deleting all of my spaces? This has happened before, but never on such an epic scale. Then, to top it all off, as soon as I'm done editing this chapter and go to save it, you LOG ME OUT so I had to do it all over again.

So not cool.

xXx

**Chapter ****warnings: **threats, bullying, torture?, WWII references, ill-timed humor (maybe?)

Oh yeah. Tom _angsts._

xXx

The thought sat in his head like a corrosive acid, eating away at the _calm-blank-apathy_ that stifled out the anger the moment Avery released him into the care of the Mediwitch. His hand was healed instantly—just a slight reprimand, a quiet order to be more careful—and then there were more than just injuries Tom needed to be careful of, because Harry wasn't supposed to warrant his forgiveness, wasn't supposed to matter enough to _need__ it_ and all Tom could think of was _save__save__save_ and how stupid, how _foolish_ it was to think that maybe, just _maybe__—_

But he couldn't think that thought, not when there was acid dripping through his insides, twisting everything into some strange facsimile pain—pain that he wasn't supposed to feel, wasn't supposed to acknowledge, because that meant it _mattered__—_

—there was silence, at the beginning. _Just__ like __**them**__, _some half-thought warred within him, and perhaps it wasn't acid, but poison. Poison because it was slowly changing everything in him, only Tom remembered this hate, remembered this _feeling, _remembered the way it felt to choke the life out of that stupid disgusting _rabbit_ and he knew how to make people hurt _too__—_

Except. This time. _This__ time._

Tom didn't want the anger. Didn't like what it meant. Didn't want to feel that swift tide of betrayal darkening his eyes into something he couldn't recognize because that would mean—_and__ he __was __only __twelve__—_but it was better, so much _better_—

—without him. Without—well. Tom knew apathy. Understood it. Could affect it even with the anger bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, even with the way he wanted to turn and press his wand to Harry's—Avery's, Lestrange's, _anyone__'__s_—throat just to make sure that they _understood_—

_It__ shouldn__'__t __matter, _because if it matters then—

But the anger made it matter. The anger made Tom _furious_ until he piled anger on top of anger on top of _anger_ and he had been silent for a reason. Had seen the depths of Harry's true intent, had faced the lie and yet and yet and yet—

_It__ shouldn__'__t __matter,_ but it did and Harry promised.

He lied.

xXx

It was largely his own fault, Harry admitted to himself as he sat beside the lake, fingers twisting into the damp grass, watching the gray-dark blades split apart in an absent sort of forced mutilation. Thinking back on it—not that he particularly cared to, because for all Harry imagined himself to be _slightly_ less oblivious than Ron, he could admit to himself that he had really, truly put his foot in it this time. _I__ lied, _Harry thought with derision, because when he thought about it—even if it wasn't what he meant—those were the only two words that could possibly make Tom Riddle lash out against him in as much hateful fury as his growing, twelve-year-old body could possess.

He'd been going about it wrong, Harry knew. Had acknowledged that to himself the moment Tom's face closed off from him and that quill snapped in Tom's fingers, cartilage spearing the flesh of his pale hand. His thoughts had been sluggish then, quickly trying to work through how things had gone to hell so _quickly__—_

—but it couldn't be just his fault, could it? Tom had to—_but__ I __was __the __one __who __interrupted__ his __life, _Harry thought with a forceful grimace, extending his legs outwards and watching his trainers dig gouges in the damp earth. _I__'__m__ the __one __who __just __appeared, __promising __to __save __him and __just..._

_lied. _

Because—_because __I __hadn__'__t __wanted __to __save __him__ in __the __first __place. __I __just__—_

—wanted Sirius and Remus and Tonks and Fred and Colin and Moody and Tonks and Dumbledore and Snape and Cedric and those lives, those lives, _so__ many __**lives**_**—**

Except those lives wouldn't matter if Harry couldn't protect the _source_ and a hate like nothing he had ever felt before suddenly speared him, dragging him closer and closer to furious impulse that made him just _act_ when the people he cared about were suffering. Harry knew—knew it so well his chest _burned_ with the knowledge—that if he didn't do _something_ to fix his stupid idiotic mistake then those lives wouldn't even stand a _chance__—_

_again._

But Tom wasn't in that field of vision. Tom wasn't part of those people's who lives really _mattered__—_except, Harry had started it all with the determination that it _did_ and now...

Now Harry was _scared._

Scared that Ron and Hermione wouldn't come to him, had forgotten him, scared that he would have to stare down all these ghosts alone, scared that whatever he did wouldn't be _enough_ and things would get worse and... and scared that at the end of it, when he could finally blink out of this time and think _I__ did __it_ that Tom Riddle would _matter_, would matter regardless of Harry's success or failure. Harry didn't want that connection, didn't want to see that relationship of predator-prey-predator that had morphed into a sick, destructive obsession because a world had been _crippled_. Harry was trying to stop it all again, but he was so _terrified_ and it was nothing like walking into death, nothing like feeling that cold grip of an Avada Kedavra coasting over his skin, dragging into him to that hazy whiteness of almost-death and—

Harry was scared, because Tom Riddle had already proven his capacity to hurt Harry, to take away the people that mattered most and Harry didn't think—if he truly followed Hermione's instructions and allowed that flicker of genuine _care_ to guide his actions—that he could handle it if that power to hurt grew stronger. More personal than some stupid prophecy. Than some ridiculous power struggle.

The last thing Harry wanted was for Tom Riddle to become his friend, only to betray him in the end. He remembered how it felt with Ron—the constant ache behind his eyes and in his chest, because Ron just didn't _trust_ him—and that was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ compared to the possibility of Tom Riddle becoming his friend and just... throwing it all away for revenge. For power. Because Tom Riddle had already been cut to the deep so _cleanly__—_

Yet even so, _even __so_—

Dumbledore called Harry a man once.

_If__ it__ all__ goes__ to __hell, _Harry thought firmly, that quiver of fear forcefully cemented over with an iron will that was purely and utterly Harry, _then__—_

—_then I'll do what I did last time. I'll destroy him and..._

_And what?_

Harry pushed himself to his feet and started off towards the castle, shoulders tense and back straight in his fear-tinged determination.

_...and hope the future didn't end up as bad as when I left it._

xXx

Three days.

It had been three days since Tom last saw his specter, three days of that unforgiving anger coiling in the pit of his stomach, three days of _I__ lied_ stuck on a loop in his mind. The vicious need to lash out—to hurt and punish and—

_Maim,_ Tom thought with conviction, but the memory of broken legs and trousers stained dark with blood, of seizing flesh and graying skin made Tom's body go cold. He remembered the blood on his hands, the utter frustration of not _knowing__—_and the betrayal was worse somehow, because Tom remembered _saving __him_ and—

_I lied._

Glowering at his wand, Tom flicked his wrist in agitation, watching in grim satisfaction as a badly aimed _Diffindo_ cut through spine of his textbook. The slice was imprecise and jagged; Tom imagined running his fingers along the edge, feeling the soft line of the paper harden, and changing shape into something dangerous and sharp and damaging.

Avery shifted beside him.

"I think it's supposed to be clean," Avery muttered, poking the edges of Tom's book. "Like mine, see?"

"Yes," Tom answered very, very quietly.

"Oh, um, well," Avery said after a moment. "It's not very common, once you get older, because we're taught how to control it but sometimes—I mean, very _rarely_—if we're not, um, stable, you know, _emotionally,_ our magic can be affected."

Tom glanced at Avery sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Pardon me, Avery," Tom said thinly, "but I don't think I quite understand your meaning."

Avery flourished his wand, replacing the shredded book with a new, whole one. All around them students were chatting quietly with one another, quiet cutting curses whipping through the air and slamming into the thick spines of the books—glue and paper and cardboard exploded into the air, some books disintegrating into unrecognizable pieces and showering the students in tiny shreds of paper. In front of them, Dolohov and Lestrange pressed their wands to the spines of their books, faces screwed up in concentration.

"Usually you're so perfect," Avery said softly, hiding his wand behind his hands and tucking it against his chest. "Except for in Dumbledore's class, but even then—and he doesn't even give you any O's and still you just—well, your magic is still _perfect,_ so—"

Tom's shoulders tensed. "_Avery._"

"It just can't be fun, you know, being angry all the time."

Tom twitched, his face going perfectly blank. "I'm not angry."

Avery laughed, a strange sarcastic laugh, which made Tom's annoyance spike dangerously. Tom stared at Avery for a long moment, watching as the boy pursed his lips and glared down at the book in front of him. Across the room, the Professor was leaning over a dark-haired Ravenclaw, instructing her on the proper wand movements for the spell. Lestrange and Dolohov went remarkably still.

"You've been different since the library," Avery said at long last. "Or, um, before. But mostly since then."

_Mostly, _Avery said, and Tom had the distinct urge to turn and hit the boy. Tom wasn't generally one for fighting—Tom couldn't recall the last time he had actually slammed his fist into someone's face, felt the round of their cheek beneath his knuckles or the harsh shape of their bones grind against his own. The magic had always been there, always ready to be unleashed, always ready to surround him in the _unnaturalness_ that none of the other orphans could _ever_ understand. Tom might have agreed to let Avery be his friend, but it was anger towards Lestrange which drove the union, anger towards his harsh words, that sneering facade which made Tom want to reach forward and just _punish__—_and even though Avery had apologized, Tom hadn't forgotten the way Avery had bullied him, had pushed him to the very edge of his self-restraint and now... _now. _Now that they were friends Avery was doing it again. Wheedling himself into Tom's thoughts, burrowing deep inside and roosting there, trying to pry whatever non-existent feelings Avery thought Tom had out of him.

Tom was beginning to _hate_ him.

Avery couldn't understand.

It had been three days and nothing had changed.

_I lied._

"I'm not angry," Tom reiterated, turning and pining Avery with a scorching look. "But I could be, if you wanted me to."

Avery flinched. "I just worry—"

"Hey Tom," Dolohov said loudly, turning in his seat and waving his half-split book in the air. "Could you help me with this?"

Giving Avery one last quelling look, Tom turned towards Dolohov and brandished his wand. The charm was spoken into the air just as cleanly as the magic was dispelled from his wand—Dolohov jerked his hand away from the edges of the book, watching in vague wonderment and a sort-of resigned expectation which made Tom's blood go hot beneath his skin.

The book was cut cleanly in two.

xXx

"I just worry," Avery murmured over dinner later that evening, and Tom's fingers were curling around the wand in his pocket and feeling the magic thrum against his fingertips before the conversation truly registered in his mind.

Avery's body was angled away from Tom, his brows turned down into a frown as he conversed with Dolohov—who was laughing loudly in response to whatever Avery had said. Tom watched silently, sipping at a goblet of cool water quietly.

"_Why_?_" _Dolohov questioned harshly, gaining the attention of the boys in their year. Catching Tom's eye over Avery's shoulder, Dolohov leaned in close, pitching his voice low. "He never stopped being your friend, you realize."

Avery gave a pained hiss. "Dolohov, you know—"

"Heir of Slytherin, yeah yeah." Dolohov snorted dismissively. "And he wasn't even that until a few weeks ago, and the whole of last year you were just as bad."

"I don't think," Tom started softly, catching the attention of his year-mates and silencing them immediately, "that this is an appropriate conversation."

Very slowly_,_ Tom met Dolohov's gaze, relishing in the slight flinch the boy gave. Avery chewed on his lip, sinking down into his seat and spearing a boiled carrot roughly.

"If you insist," Dolohov muttered in agreement.

xXx

Six days.

And still nothing changed.

Or, rather, something _had_ changed, but Tom was too caught up in himself to realize. Like clockwork, the poisonous anger that clotted every part of his being started to give way—Avery had become persistent in his worrying—whether it was about Tom or Lestrange, it didn't matter. One moment Avery's eyes would be locked on Tom as though trying to pry all of his secrets apart and the next, he would be snagging Dolohov by the elbow and whispering fiercely in the other boy's ear, immediately clamming up whenever Tom appeared in his immediate vicinity.

Tom could feel his annoyance mounting, slowly infecting every part of him until it shifted and was bleeding into that hidden anger, that foul betrayal that made him want to _hurt _someone_—_

Tom needed an outlet. Wanted one, because this was getting to be too much, too fast and it was constantly eating away at him, just a whisper away from everything else, just a flicker of _hate-resentment-fury _and _where __was __he?_

The need coursed through Tom like hot magma, startling him into shoving all his books into his bag, forcing him to snarl at Avery as the boy asked him where he was going, pushing him to storm past Lestrange and Dolohov who stared at him with blank-blank eyes and—

—there had to be a way to get away, to just separate, to do what he needed to do because the thoughts were all there, clawing at his brain, forcing him to _think-think-__**think**_ and—

—_six__ days. _Six days of nothing. Six days of _lielielie _but the anger meant it _mattered,_ and Tom needed to hate, did hate, felt it clot every vein in his body but there was no way to get it out because _Harry__ wasn__'__t__ there__—_

"Mr. Riddle," a voice greeted quite abruptly, startling Tom into stillness, his eyes wide as his chest heaved, fingers curled around the length of his wand, watching in disbelieving horror as one auburn eyebrow slowly arched above half-moon spectacles. It took a moment for Tom to realize _why_ and a cold flush washed his skin pale. Shifting awkwardly, Tom slowly lowered his wand, hiding it in the pocket of his robes as he stared at his Transfigurations Professor, eyes distracted by the shock of periwinkle blue robes and bright yellow stars.

"Professor Dumbledore," Tom returned after a long moment of silence.

"You seem to be in quite a state," Dumbledore continued, expression flat and unyielding. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Tom answered sharply. Both of Dumbledore's brows rose in silent reprimand. Tom's jaw clenched. "_Sir._"

"Ah, well then, please continue on your way. But do try to not to pull your wand any of the other Professors. It could very well end in something worse than a detention."

Tom jerked, his brows furrowing. "_Detention__—_"

Dumbledore smiled absently. "Had I not been the one to startle you and had you actually fired off a curse—but I suppose it can be forgiven, for now. If you'll excuse me."

Dumbledore brushed past him without waiting for him to say anything—not that Tom could, with the way his mind felt like it was on the fringe of _collapsing__—_and with a clench of his fists, Tom pressed his back against cool stone, staring out of the wide arching windows on the other side of the corridor.

The sky was overcast, Tom observed absently, but that wasn't nearly as important as forcing the anger to recede and for all that Tom disdained his Transfigurations Professor he could honestly say that he had been grateful for the distraction, grateful for the way Dumbledore managed to tilt his world on its axis simply by _existing_. The force that whipped chaotically around him had dispersed in one moment of shocking clarity—of simply _returning_ to the place where his anger wasn't the only thing that existed, where he wasn't drowning and trying to force that denial into stillness, because it wasn't supposed to _matter_—

Tom needed a distraction, needed something to unclog the poison in his head. It had been six days since he'd last seen Harry.

_He__ lost __his __chance __for __forgiveness,_ Tom thought glowering at the gray clouds. Drumming his fingers absently against his thigh, Tom pushed off the wall and strode across the corridor to the window, staring blankly at the way soft grass stretched outwards until it touched the edge of the Forbidden Forest, dark and haunting in its stillness. Tom lifted a hand, pressed against the cool glass—dark wrought-iron metal held firm in its frame, encasing the sheets of glass cleanly and Tom allowed himself to be immersed in the simple feeling of _being__—_there, in Hogwarts, where he was better.

The sound of voices filtering down the hall was an unwelcome distraction from his thoughts, but Tom tuned into them anyways, his fingers curling into a fist on the cool glass.

"—expelled, you know," someone hissed, and Tom frowned.

"But it's brilliant," another voice responded harshly, "and you know you can't learn anything like this in Hogwarts. And what, with the war—"

Tom suddenly found himself going ramrod straight, his face slipping into that mask of polite disinterest, heart thrumming in sudden interest because—_he__ didn__'__t __know__ nearly __enough__ and__ he__ wanted __to __**save**__**—**__you __can__'__t __learn __anything __like __this __in __Hogwarts,_ Tom interrupted brutally, violently, quietly moving towards the source of the voices, wanting to know more, more, infinitely _more._ Because if there was nothing like this at Hogwarts, then that meant—

"But its the _Dark __Arts,_ and if anyone finds out—"

"They won't, and you want to know, too, just as much as I do, right? It's just a Potion, Slughorn won't notice, and—"

"Fine. Fine, but still, I just—"

"No one will notice, I promise, and if someone _does_—"

_The__ Dark__ Arts,_ Tom thought, a fanatical little gleam smearing across his face because there was more to learn, more to know, more to magic than he could ever possibly _understand__—_

Stepping as quietly as possible, Tom moved quickly across the hall and tucked himself into a small alcove, pressing as far into the shadows as possible. He drummed his fingers excitedly against his thigh, body held tight and tense, mind circling in an excited loop around the mere _thought_...

"We can't just _Obliviate_ them!" One of the boys hissed as he stepped into Tom's line of sight, shoulders hunching and features turned away from him. "It's not legal and besides—"

The other boy snorted disdainfully. "You idiot," he muttered, elbowing his friend sharply. "As if the Dark Arts are any better."

The other boy staggered, falling silent and staring at his friend imploringly as they continued down the corridor. Tom shifted minutely out of his hiding spot, hoping for a brief flash of their faces, but they were already turning the corner and out of sight. Tom hesitated a moment, wondering, but the excited thrumming of his pulse in the underside of his wrist stilled him.

"The Dark Arts," Tom whispered, his dark gaze focusing intently on the window, watching as the clouds grew darker, water vapor condensing thickly.

He hadn't given it much real thought before; for all his desire to _know_, to want to feel and know everything to do with magic, Tom hadn't truly contemplated what it meant. Yet he took classes which helped to protect them against the Dark Arts—learned hexes and jinxes and charms and counter-curses—all to prevent injury from a form of magic that was talked about but not _taught_ within the walls of Hogwarts. Leaning forward on the balls of his feet, Tom bounced slightly, fingers drumming against the thick of his thigh, simply _wondering_...

The Dark Arts were illegal, forbidden. That much, Tom was aware of. The sheer taboo of practicing such magic was slowly trickling into the minds of every Professor in the school, weighing on their minds as the threat of war, the threat of _Grindelwald_ grew heavier, more fear inducing. It hadn't reached Britain yet, but Tom could tell by the tense set of the teachers faces whenever another issue of the Daily Prophet was dropped on their breakfast platters—_more __air __raids, __more __Muggle __casualties, __its __going __to __slip __over __into __the __Wizarding __World __eventually, __pretty __soon __the __Muggles __will __**know**__—_that Grindelwald was making things worse, causing the panic to escalate into something resembling sheer terror. The Professors tried to hide their unease behind calming smiles and comforting words—especially when it came to the Muggleborn students—but they couldn't quite wipe away the tension, the sick roiling in their stomach as the thought of another German born man, Gellert Grindelwald, fed off the fear that the advancing German forces induced and used it to his advantage. Grindelwald's magical war hadn't reached British soil yet, but, like the Muggles, it was only a matter of time and effort. Pretty soon, Grindelwald would earn the title the Daily Prophet saw fit to give him... he would and could truly become the next Dark Lord...

_And__ he__ will__ use__ Dark__ Arts__ to__ get __there,_Tom thought, stomach clenching stared at the clouds, watched as the winds began to pick up outside, whipping branches and leaves back and forth, disturbing the calm surface of the lake. It was a startling thought, a terrifying one, but the realization that he could know—that it could bring about greatness, betterment—_and __Salazar __Slytherin __was __a __Dark __Wizard. __Hogwarts:__ A __History __said __so, __claimed__ that __he __practiced__ the __Dark __Arts __as __well, __even__ if __they__ weren__'__t __illegal __in __those __times... __I__ could __be __like __him, __could __have __so __much __knowledge,__ so __much __power... __I __could __truly __become__ the __Heir __of __Slytherin..._

The thought was exhilarating. _Terrifying. _Yet it stuck firm in Tom's mind, slowly eclipsing the fierce anger that had blinded him so readily. Tom could feel his focus shifting, was flooded at the relief that he found something else that actually _mattered__—_

"Avery," Tom said some time later, catching and pinning the boy with his intense gaze. "What do you know about the Dark Arts?"

Avery's breathing stuttered to a stop, his eyes going impossibly wide as he stared at his friend. His hands gripped the page of his Herbology textbook, fingers nearly ripping through the pages—and after an excruciatingly painful inhalation Avery whipped his head around, taking in the relative emptiness of the library.

"_Tom_—"

"I overheard some of the older students talking about them," Tom offered up in explanation, watching Avery carefully. "I was merely curious."

Avery gave a harsh shudder, shoving his Herbology textbook away from him and chewing on his lip worriedly.

"The Dark Arts... they're not something you talk about. _Ever._"

Tom kept his face perfectly blank, despite the irritation that surged up within him. Avery was generally somewhat observant—and, coming from a Pureblood family—tended to know things that Tom could only grasp at with his Muggle upbringing. At first, Tom wasn't certain he even wanted to ask; the overwhelming aggravation he felt towards Avery's worry had been clawing at him from the inside, reminding him over and over again what had happened nearly a week ago in the library (_I__ lied) _but the Dark Arts... the questions were itching at the inside of his skin, begging to be asked, the pure need to know nearly choking Tom... and after forcefully pulling Avery away from a furiously whispered conversation with Dolohov, Tom hadn't been able to hold the question in any longer. Whatever knowledge Avery had, Tom wanted it, needed to pick at that part of Avery's brain and see _everything_, needed to open Avery up with the not-so-subtle prodding that had him speaking with the same boldness that had started the twisted friendship meant to hurt Lestrange—

—only Avery wasn't giving. His expression had shuttered the moment he finished speaking. His eyes continued to dart around the quiet corner of the library they tucked themselves into, arms folding across his chest as his fingers tapped an agitated rhythm against his upper arms. Tom's ire grew.

"I see," Tom replied softly. He promptly began packing away his school things.

"_But_," Avery interjected swiftly, shoulders moving back in an odd display of aggression. "If you absolutely _have__ to __know, _then... if there's someone you should, you know, _ask_... well, I'd say..." Avery peered at him strangely. "I'd say you'd be better off asking... well, you'd be better off asking Lestrange."

Tom blinked, his hands momentarily stilling.

"What an odd thing to say," Tom commented quietly, releasing his half-empty satchel.

The strange gleam in Avery's eye suddenly intensified and his lips pulled back from his teeth. The move was, Tom noted once more, alarmingly aggressive and completely different from the meek, agreeable Avery that Tom had gotten used to most recently. Tom didn't like it.

"My family, they know but have never let me... but Lestrange, his family's different. They've been practicing around him since he was little. I've seen some things but Lestrange, he's similar to how you are in regards to what we learn here at Hogwarts... he just _gets __it._ But if you don't want to ask him—and I'm not really sure, but _maybe__—_you could ask Dolohov."

Tom remained still, his eyes trained intently on Avery. He wasn't sure what he felt—irritation, discomfort, _nothing_—but the mere suggestion of asking Lestrange anything made his want to curl his fingers tightly into Avery's hair and slam the boy's head straight into the table. Dolohov was slightly more bearable, but Tom could remember the way Dolohov would hover just behind Lestrange's shoulder, snickering at whatever insult the dark-haired boy sent his way. Avery had once been apart of that as well, but he was the only one to actually apologize and for all Dolohov had suddenly been acting as a buffer for Tom when it came to Avery's penchant for worrying about things that were absolutely none of his business, Tom found himself wanting to hurt the boy nearly as much as he wanted to hurt Lestrange for that association alone.

Uncurling his fists, Tom lowered himself back into his seat, slowly extending a hand towards Avery; he could imagine his fingers curling into the lengthening blond strands, tightening his grip to the point of pain... and Avery wouldn't fight back, Avery _never _fought back, not with Tom, and it would be so _easy__—_

Someone brushed Tom's shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

Tom's hand settled heavily on Avery's head as his heart thundered in his chest, his fingers curling at the sudden urge to have his wand in his hand, his hatred and fury and utter betrayal twisting his features into something inhuman and ugly—but then Avery was staring at him, his eyes going wide in something that made Tom's heart jerk and his stomach twist in sheer euphoria because... because—

Avery was _scared_ of him.

It was an expression Tom had seen a handful of times before, mostly at the orphanage—Lestrange hadn't been fear, just thick fury, trying his hardest to go up against someone he could never be superior to—but Amy and Dennis had shown him what real fear was, had taught him what it meant to truly beg and plead just to make everything _stop__—_and Tom was seeing it now, reflected in the eyes of the person who claimed to be his friend. Tom could see it in the way Avery's body suddenly hunched forward, the way his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, the way every word out of his mouth had been laced with so much aggression and sheer daring that it _hurt_ (_so__ much __more __than __any __spell __ever __**could**_) because Avery knew Tom. Avery knew Tom in ways that Tom hadn't realized he had and Avery was _terrified._

Tom smiled, razor sharp, and stroked his fingers through Avery's hair.

"You realize, of course," Tom started, eyes eating up the sheer discomfort that Avery exuded, "that I am your only friend."

A hand suddenly gripped Tom's shoulder tightly, but Tom ignored the anger fighting to get out because this was _so __much __better._

"Tom," Avery started, licking his lips uncomfortably, his gaze darting around the library as though unable to focus on any one thing, "what are you—"

"I _value_ you," Tom continued, fingers stilling by the curve of Avery's ear and sinking into the soft strands, his grip tight. Avery flinched but didn't try to move away from Tom's grip, his eyes locked suddenly on the table-top, caught beneath the heaviness of Tom's stare. "But, Avery, sometimes you make me wonder... just how much do _you_ value _me_?"

"I'm sorry," Avery muttered, "but Lestrange is my friend too and I didn't think—"

"He slighted me, you realize," Tom said softly, leaning forward and dislodging the hand from his shoulder. "He thought it was funny, the thought of me being killed by those Muggle bombings, the thought of me never coming back to this school again. It's amusing, just how much you claim to be my friend, just how much you claim to care, yet you see no problem in trying to humiliate me just as much as he has." Tom jerked on Avery's hair, forcing him out of his seat. "Do you really value me so little, Avery? You abandoned him first, you know. You don't get to try and take that back."

Tom released Avery abruptly, watching in detached amusement as the boy steadied himself against the table, the color drained from his face. Avery took one shaky breath, then two and straightened, his shoulders drooping and his eyes seeing everything but Tom's face.

"I think I'll go back to the Common Room now," Avery reported. He reached for his things and quickly packed them away.

"You'll ask him for me," Tom said, returning to his seat, "and you'll tell me everything he says."

Avery glanced at him as he slung his bag over his shoulder, hugging it close to his side. "Just because I still think of him as my friend doesn't mean he'll talk to me."

"He will," Tom answered absently, lifting a quill and dipping it into his open ink well. "And when you're finished with him, you'll speak to Dolohov." Tom paused long enough to fix Avery with an intense stare before turning back to his essay. "You may leave now."

Avery shuffled about aggravatingly for a few moments more before turning on his heel and disappearing from the library.

Tom instantly set his quill aside.

"Hello again, _Harry,_" he spat acidly, turning to face Harry with a vicious look on his face.

xXx

Harry didn't mean for it to happen. One moment he was shocked still at the pure disregard that Tom treated his friend with, thoughts of _too__ late, __I__'__m__ far __too __late_ battering about in his head as he watched Tom curl his fingers into the boy's hair, spitting vicious words that cut the boy deeper than Tom could possibly imagine—Harry could see it on Avery's face, the way Tom's careless words made him want to get away, to walk right out of the library and pretend he never knew the boy at all (_but__ couldn__'__t)_—the next, Tom twisting around to glare at him, eyes flashing with an inner fire that reminded Harry all too well of just what he would be—what he was already becoming—when he was older.

The thought caused a beat of hysterical panic to erupt in his chest, and without even thinking about what he was doing—instinct, it seemed, always seemed to rule whenever it came to Voldemort (_except__ when__ he__ was __seventeen__ and __hunting __Horcruxes, __red __and__ green __arcing __across __the __length __of __the __great __hall, __red__ dispersing __and __green __shooting __back, __crashing __into __pale __white __skin __marking a defeat that __was __everything__ Dumbledore__ planned __and __everything __Harry __could __ever __hope __for __and __**more**__)_—his wand was shooting a non-verbal _Reducto_ that slammed into the table where Tom had been leaning and made everything _explode_ (Harry tried not to think about the way he grabbed at Tom's robes and practically threw him into the bookshelf behind him in the same motion) flinching as bits of glass and splintered wood caught against the skin of his face, drawing blood.

There was a moment of silence, one long moment of drawn out _horror_ where Harry stared at the destroyed table as shreds of parchment and textbooks flittered in the air around them, and then Harry was whirling around and staring at Tom, at something that made the world drop out from beneath his feet.

"Er," Harry said dazedly. "That was an accident."

Tom bared his teeth. "An accident_,_" he hissed, pushing away from the bookshelf and flinching violently, one arm curling around his ribs as the other pulled his wand from his pocket. "An _accident._"

"Er, yes," Harry said slowly, eying Tom's wand warily. "Look—"

"_Just __what__ on__ earth__ have__ you__ done__ to __my__ library,__ Tom__ Riddle?__"_

Tom and Harry both jerked reflexively, turning to stare at the librarian—who, Harry saw, was turning the most interesting shade of mottled purple—her eyes wild as she examined the mess in front of her. Her eyes shifted from the table to Tom's wand, her lips thinning into an angry line, her nostrils flaring in pure fury. Harry didn't give her the chance to get started; he darted across the short distance between himself and Tom, grabbed the boy by his arm and _jerked__—_Tom recoiled, the hand around his wand tightening as he pulled it back, teeth bared and eyes flashing. Harry had a moment to think _'__he__'__s __going __to __hit __me__'_ before the librarian swung around, twirling her wand magnificently. Thick black restraints shot through the air and slammed into Tom's back, wrapping around him painfully tight before pitching him forward and sending him crashing into the ground.

Harry flinched. "Oh hell—"

"I don't think so, Mr. Riddle," the librarian screeched. "Fifty points from Slytherin for destruction of school property and _another _fifty points for attempting to avoid your punishment. Just wait until your Head of House hears about this, just you _wait._"

"I hate you," Tom seethed, glaring up at Harry. "I will make you _regret_—"

"_What__ was __that,__ boy?__"_ the librarian shrieked once again, and Tom's jaw snapped shut immediately as his attention towards the librarian.

Harry tried really hard not to laugh. He had the uncomfortable realization that he was probably half-delirious. This hadn't been his intention. At all.

"Nothing, Madam," Tom said, painfully polite. His body quivered in anger. "I merely wanted to apologize—"

"Oh, you'll apologize with a week's worth of detention," the librarian hissed. "Destroying school property, what were you thinking? You're normally such a good boy, Tom, I can't believe..." Harry choked at the comment and the librarian shook her head roughly, her wand arcing in a quick motion that forced Tom to his feet. "Professor Dumbledore will hear of this, don't think he won't."

Harry shuffled awkwardly. "If I apologized—"

Tom's jaw clenched.

"Right," Harry muttered, stowing his wand away and following after them as the librarian swept through the halls, Tom bobbing through the air behind her. "I suppose it didn't hurt to try. And, just so you know, I—"

Tom released a low, hissing breath.

Harry grimaced. "I don't care if you're angry. I meant what I said. I'm not leaving."

Tom's body gave an odd twitch, his eyes shifting over to regard Harry carefully. The fire was still present—Harry honestly could admit that it wasn't going away any time soon (_but__ neither__ am__ I_)—and his teeth were still bared aggressively, something which made Harry distinctly uneasy because he couldn't remember ever seeing this look on Tom's face, not even when he was Voldemort. Cold disdain and gleeful hatred, Harry could remember. The joy that came with hurting those who had slighted him (_the __joy __that __had __been __there __when__ Tom__ was __reprimanding__ Avery, __mixing __affection __and __fear __in __a __way __that __made __the __bile__ rise __in __Harry__'__s __throat __because __it __was__ so __reminiscent __of __his __own__ past __that __he __could __only __stare __in __shock, __unable __to __move, __unable __to__ think, __only __able __to __touch__ Tom__'__s __shoulder __lightly, __the __reminder __of __all __he __had __done __and__ would __do __pressing __down __into __the __trenches __of __his __mind __like __an __unbearable __sickness_) was familiar, and Harry remembered. He had slighted Tom. Insulted him. Hurt him. Refused to apologize. Refused to _let__ go._

Tom was exactly the same.

A sharp knock startled Harry out of his staring contest, and he turned his head quizzically, catching Tom's blanking expression in his peripheral. There was a short pause, a muffled '_enter__'_ that sounded vaguely familiar and then the door opened.

Harry froze.

Sweat broke out on the skin of palms, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest and blood pulsing in his ear drums; goose bumps rose on his flesh, a harsh breath escaping his lungs—

"Deputy Headmaster," the librarian greeted, striding forward into the bright office, and Harry's eyes caught on the glittering silver objects lining the shelves, his mind going back to a time when his grief was most acute, to when it had been his childishness and his stupidity that had cost him someone who mattered _so __much__ and__—_

Tom caught his eye.

Harry took a step back.

It was too much, being here. Hands curling into fists at his side, Harry glanced away, refusing to let his gaze linger, refusing to let it shift to the other person in the room, to auburn hair sprinkled with the beginnings of gray, refusing to catch the sight of twinkling blue eyes and half moon spectacles, refusing to listen to the voice that said, "Ah, Madam and... and Mr. Riddle. To what do I owe this visit?" because it was too much, too soon and even though Harry could remember the way Dumbledore wept beside him, the way Harry's heart hadn't felt quite so heavy when he was able to pull himself out of that hazy white half-death, there were still some things Harry just wasn't ready face (_not __when __he __felt __like __more __of __a __coward __and__ less __of __a __man__ with __each__ passing __second_) and Dumbledore was one of them.

Feeling the heat of Tom's stare, Harry glanced up; there was a flash of vicious triumph that made Harry's blood go cold—

The door closed with a muted thunk.

_It__ doesn__'__t __matter,_ Harry thought. The silence pressed heavily all around him. Harry wiped his palms roughly against his trousers. _I__'__ll__ still __be __here __when __he __gets __out._

Swallowing roughly, Harry moved sluggishly down the hall, his attention catching on a familiar portrait of a small girl with tight dark curls.

Harry waited.

xXx

When Tom emerged from Dumbledore's office twenty minutes later, Professor Slughorn had a hand pressed tightly to his shoulder and was urging him forward, looking back into Dumbledore's office with a strained smile on his face. Harry shoved himself to his feet, frowning at Tom's curiously vacant expression as he waited. The door shut soundly behind them.

"Now Tom," Slughorn started cheerily, "I know the library is a wretched place to be, but destroying furniture? What on earth were you thinking, my boy?"

"As I told Professor Dumbledore," Tom started, staring resolutely at his feet, "it was an accident."

"Accident indeed!" Slughorn answered, patting Tom's shoulder consoling. "But Tom, you and I both know your spell work is far too superb for simple accidents. I've done my best to cut back on your punishment, but destroying school property—"

Tom's gaze cut up and caught Harry's so abruptly that Harry startled, accidentally catching himself on his own foot and nearly toppling to the ground.

"Forgive me, Professor, but I must insist. I was practicing some spell work—which, as you know, has recently been lacking my particular brand of perfection—and in addition to the study tables, my own school supplies were also damaged..."

"Quite right, quite right!" Slughorn agreed, laughing jolly. "Well, let's see if we can't fix it, shall we? Of course you may have to wait outside the library, I doubt the Madam will allow you in there for a while yet..."

Tom didn't reply.

The walk to the library was tense and mildly uncomfortable—Tom merely responded to Slughorn's question with strangely evasive answers and self-deprecating put-downs, which Slughorn excused with lavish praise that was vaguely reminiscent of Harry's previous relationship with the man. _Until__ I__ started__ asking__ about__ the__ Horcruxes,_ Harry thought, pausing outside the library alongside Tom, who remained silent. It was refreshing and just a little bit worrisome that Slughorn hadn't changed over the years. Probably wouldn't change, if Harry thought about it, until Tom Riddle became known as Lord Voldemort. Harry was very familiar with the regret the man kept locked deep inside of him, had seen it clear as day the night Aragog had died and Harry managed to gain _that_ particular memory through liquid luck and utter patience.

Harry's eyes slid to Tom.

Harry wasn't sure what made Tom want to create the Horcruxes—or how he came across them in the first place—but Tom was only twelve (_nearly__ thirteen_, Harry thought with a quiver of unease) and already he was displaying severe signs of violence. Killing the rabbit, Amy and Dennis... Harry wasn't sure whether Tom actually hurt them or not, wasn't sure if his presence had been enough to change that particular piece of Tom's history, but Tom's need and desire for revenge was still present. The need to hurt others who hurt him—Lestrange had obviously done something and just recently, Avery had done something as well. Tom hadn't dealt the same heavy hand to Avery that he had extended to Lestrange, but Harry could recognize the build up. Harry could see Tom's desire to dominate and be invincible to outside influence constructing walls around him, making it impossible for others to look at him with something other than fear.

Avery had been full of it. He had been cowed beneath Tom's disturbing display. Whatever thoughts were going through Tom's head were more than enough to make Harry tense in that instinctual flight-or-fight response. Although Harry knew his own point of focus—his new found determination in accomplishing his goals in regards to Tom—witnessing Tom's display of careless disregard, of idle threats with so much _meaning_ hidden within them, made Harry wonder if he could actually _do_ anything. He had promised himself that he would try, that he would fight until there was nothing left to fight for to get Tom to just _realize_... but it was getting more difficult the longer he waited, the more that shift occurred within him. He was already deceptively polite when necessary (Harry had yet to see the characteristic charm that he remembered from his experiences with Tom's diary), already hiding his true feelings behind that blank mask of _nothingness._ Harry found it disturbing that, aside from anger, he couldn't even _guess_ what Tom was thinking. Couldn't tell if he was hurt. Couldn't tell if he was just as scared as Harry. Terrified of anyone getting close to him, because there was so much to lose...

"I've only ever really died once," Harry said quietly, fingers lifting and curling around the vial of memories hidden beneath his shirt. "But I didn't go on. I chose to come back and remain here, but... dying that time was quick and fast, like... like falling asleep." Tom's shoulders went stiff. "But when I woke up in the air raid... that was... slow and excruciating and I just wanted to die because it would mean never having to feel that sort of pain ever again, even though I knew I couldn't."

A moment passed, the air saturated with feelings Harry couldn't put a name to. Harry felt as if he was trying to breathe through molasses, as if every joint and muscle in his body was frozen in an almost-there half-truth that lingered in the air. Tom shifted, his gaze lingering on the entrance to the library, and then—

"I should have watched you die," Tom responded peculiarly. "I was going to let you, at first."

Harry wasn't sure what to do with that admission. There was a vague sense of disconnection—_he __should __have...__what_?_—_of sorrow which echoed through every rational thought which claimed that Tom was just acting out, that Tom didn't _mean_ it, but the sluggish horror would not be fought back.

_He__ wants __me__ to__ die,_ Harry realized, horribly awed. _Except__ I__ haven__'__t._

(_It wasn't the first time._

_On both counts.)_

"Yeah," Harry agreed roughly, throat tight. "You saved me. If it weren't for you, I would have died. Er... thank you, I suppose."

Tom's fingers twitched, his body giving a vicious spasm. He slowly turned, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched painfully tight. Harry waited, keeping his gaze pinned to the boy, hoping that whatever Tom was looking for would be reflected on his face because he wanted to close the gap, wanted the chasm that he had opened up between them to lessen and actually telling the truth—clearing the air—was the only way he could think to do it.

"I hate you," Tom said, finally meeting Harry's eyes, "and I wish you _had_ died—"

"All finished!" Slughorn exclaimed loudly as he exited the library, a strange gleam in his eye as he regarded Tom. "Quite the mess you left, my boy, quite the mess. Well, here are your things, and off you go." Slughorn gestured to the satchel in his hands and Tom reached out for it absently, eyes so dark they were nearly black as he stared at Harry. Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat, chest uncomfortably tight. The quiet thrum of '_I__ have __to __kill __him__'_ left Harry feeling weak.

"Thank you Professor."

Slughorn patted Tom absently, eyes skittering around the corridor suspiciously. After a moment of coming up with nothing, Slughorn left Tom standing there, satchel held loosely in his hand and eyes blazing.

"Don't make this difficult, Tom," Harry said after a moment. "I don't want to... hurt you."

"I will make you regret hurting me," Tom answered in reply, his voice soft and low and dangerous. "I will. And no one will..." Tom expression shifted then, from dangerous ire to the soft euphoria of a fantastic rediscovery. "_No __one __will __know._ You're _only __here __for __me, _Harry. I'll make you wish I hadn't saved—"

"_Don__'__t,_" Harry growled, anger flushing his face red, his entire body thrumming in _panic-denial-fight_. "Don't even—just _don__'__t. _If you want space, fine, I'll give it to you. But I'm not—I gave up everything for you, Tom, and I'm _not_ going to throw it all away because you can't—" Harry cut himself off abruptly and took a deep calming breath. "I didn't mean to hurt you and I'm sorry I did, but it's your fault as well_,_ so take some responsibility and _grow __up_."

Tom hissed low and hard through his teeth. "How _dare__—"_

"I'm leaving," Harry announced loudly, blatantly ignoring the anger which was becoming distressingly second nature to Tom. Harry refused to feel guilty for it. "Good _night_, Tom."

Harry strode swiftly down the corridor, unknowingly moving back the way he came. Whenever he was angry at his friends, he generally tended to wander the corridors aimlessly, stewing in his irritation, but there was little Ron and Hermione did to infuriate him anymore. Often times, whenever Ron would bring up Ginny, Harry could feel that unwarranted aggravation rearing its ugly head, however... it was nothing to the fury Harry felt now.

_He__ wants__ to__ torture__ me,_ Harry thought distractedly as he turned a corner. _He__ actually__ said__—_

A half-hysterical bubble of laughter erupted from his throat, Harry's anger deflating as that traitorous echo pounded against the contours of his skull once more. _I __have __to __kill __him, _and the realization was so extreme that Harry staggered on the stairs, catching the hand railing and sinking to his knees.

_It's no different from before, just like with Voldemort—_

_(Tom had said so, before, when there was nothing but cruel laughter and the harsh pain of bones knitting themselves together, brittle and aching and hurting and Harry had almost forgotten, nearly let the memory disperse beneath the thoughts of_ _the future, Death Eaters, **Voldemort.**)  
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"Merlin," Harry muttered, shaking his head roughly and pulling himself to his feet. "Tom Riddle said he wants to kill me. Only twelve and already _he__ wants__ to__ kill __me_."

"Well," a voice said suddenly, causing Harry to miss a step and tumble on the stairs, his knees hitting stone with a painfully loud _CRACK._ "That most certainly changes things, now doesn't it?"

Harry stilled, his knees smarting as he stared at the thick flagstone under his knees. It was cool through his trousers, Harry noted distantly, covered in the constant battle of _light-shadow-light_ that the sconces affixed to the wall gave off. Harry was distantly aware of his bones hurting as he squeezed the banister tight—there was a reason he had been so startled, wasn't there? Harry couldn't quite remember what had happened, only that one moment he had been alone and the next—

The next. He had said something. Something he shouldn't have said out loud and then...

Slowly, so slowly that Harry didn't know if he was moving or not, Harry lifted his head. At first there was nothing but stone, but that quickly gave away to the soft shimmer of fabric that was some color swallowed up by the gray-gray-gray of his monochromatic world. Starbursts danced along the fabric—_it__ looks__ soft, _Harry pondered incoherently, distressingly—and then the world was shifting, gray bleeding out into some facsimile of _color__—_grays and black and off-whites were suddenly blue and gold and _(bright,__ too__ bright, __too__ loud __and__ memories__ stacked __on __memories __reeking __of __death __and __startling __bursts __of __green __because __someone __was __whispering __Avada__ Kedavra __and__ people __were __dying __and __they __**weren**__**'**__**t **__**supposed **__**to**_)—

Something warm and wet and thick sluiced over Harry's lips and chin, spattering against the ground and suddenly, Harry's entire body was (_shaking, __aching, __excruciatingly __cold __and __unbearably __hot __and __the __Cruciatus __Curse __was __ice __cold __fire __in his __veins, __little __needle __points __stabbing __into __him__ over __and__ over __and __over __again) _in pain.

There was a moment—one long, vague, indescribable moment—where a sorrow Harry couldn't recall feeling ruptured inside of him and he was staring into (_familiar, __comforting, __accepting)_ blue eyes and then—

—Harry's world was shifting, his gut was twisting and all he wanted to do was _throw-up_ because—

_Dumbledore._

"_Harry.__"_

The world blurred.

Harry's skull cracked against the floor.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter warnings: **(heterosexual) sexual imagery, minor gore, bullying, less Tom more… everyone else.

xXx

There was blood in his mouth.

It tasted just as Harry remembered it; unpleasant and sharp. The thick roll of the liquid over his tongue and down his throat made Harry nearly vomit. Turning on his side Harry spat, watching distractedly as a thick gob of bloody mucus hit the chalky wood-paneled floor.

The phantom sensations of Harry's transfer—pain, nausea, dizziness, disorientation—continued to batter about his body. Needing a moment to center himself (_and to forget the torturous delirium pricking at his skin while the memory of too-blue eyes peering grimly into his own forced bile to rise to the back of his throat_) Harry curled his trembling hands into fists, staring blankly at the dusty chalk that clung to his fingers.

He was vaguely aware of his head throbbing painfully; there was warmth on his scalp, as well as an insistent sting that caused Harry to grunt in discomfort. There was a hitch of breath—not his own—and then fingers pushing at his bangs and tilting his face up until he staring into large silver eyes.

"I think the nargles have made his brain go fuzzy," a soft voice said. It was vaguely familiar, Harry reflected.

"Or," someone cut in, managing to sound both frosty and amused, "he could have just hit his head. He's bleeding for a reason, I imagine."

"Excessively," the first voice agreed calmly.

Harry blinked.

"Luna?"

"Oh, he knows my name," the girl holding him responded happily, shifting her face away from him. Now that he could see her—when had she gotten so close?—Harry could see a pleasant smile touching her lips, as well as the fact that her chin and nose were smeared with blood. A faint prickling of alarm set Harry off, but then he reached forward and rubbed at the spot on her chin, flinching violently when he noticed the blood on his own hands.

"Er," Harry muttered, snatching his hands away. "What—?"

And then the realization slammed into him like the force of a _Reducto_ to the chest.

_Luna, _Harry thought, staring at her in wide-eyed wonder. _Luna_ was staring at him, a soft smile on her face, seeming completely unperturbed with the fact that Harry was bleeding and feeling positively awful and not a little bit delirious. Her hair was just as Harry remembered it; long, stringy blonde strands hung around her blood spotted face, eyes bright and not at all glazing over with that distant, hazy look which meant she was trying particularly hard to forget that the people around her existed. Her fingers still ghosted against his chin and Harry resisted the urge to lean into them—Luna was _there, _Luna was _looking at him, _and, most importantly, Luna only existed _in the future._

_I'm home, _Harry thought, relief flooding him and loosening the painful knot of tension that gripped him.

"Hey," Harry greeted. He eyed her face hungrily.

"Hello, Harry," Luna greeted, releasing him. "I hope you had a pleasant trip."

"Not really, no," Harry muttered, sitting up properly. His vision spun dangerously. "What... what are you—where are Ron and Hermione?"

"Oh, just abandoning their friends and family to go gallivanting through time, I suspect," an incredibly familiar, incredibly scathing voice answered. Dread settled in the pit of Harry's stomach then, hot and heavy. It held all the consistency of lead and Harry had to forcefully push back the dual rush _want-need-desire _and _guilt-fear-cowardice_ that coiled through his ribs and compressed his lungs with an unbearable pressure. Ginny shifted behind him—one moment, there was only the sound of her voice and the rush of Harry's memory (_red hair sliding through his fingers, lips pressed against his own, the soft round of her breast cupped delightfully beneath in his palm, heated flesh trembling around his fingers and slicking them moist_) and then there was reality, staring at him pointedly with flashing brown eyes, twisted lips and pretty white skin dotted with freckles Harry had the insane urge to touch and run away from all at once.

Swallowing convulsively, Harry noticed that Luna wasn't the only one who was spotted with blood; a thick crust clung to Ginny's hair line, sweeping over her temple and across her ear before disappearing into the neckline of her yellow blouse. Harry stared at her neck for a moment more (_lips parted against soft flesh, breath wet and warm as his tongue laved against her skin, tasting wanting taking)_ basking in the uncomfortably pleasant wave of memories. Ginny cleared her throat pointedly.

"Er," Harry said, flinching violently. His temples throbbed. "So... what did Hermione tell you?"

"A great many things which appeared to lack weight and substance," Luna supplied.

"Which is to say, _nothing_," said Ginny. Her hair spilled over her shoulder. Harry dutifully looked the other way.

"She left us a letter." Luna stood and dusted off her skirt, still smiling pleasantly at Harry. "I would show it to you, but you seem to be bleeding quite excessively. Shall I take you to St. Mungo's?"

Grimacing, Harry lifted his hand to the back of his head and pressed. The wound was wet and warm, nearly swallowing the pads of his fingers and stung fiercely at his prodding. Drawing his fingers away, Harry gulped; it had been a while since he felt the effects of his time-travel so acutely. He remembered the way his legs would collapse from underneath him, the way his head would crack against the floor and his nose would spill blood without warning. And then, of course, there was the vomiting and lack of color—

—which, Harry noted in horrified wonder as he took in the deep color of Ginny's hair, did not seem to be a problem any longer.

_What changed?_

Shaking off the thoughts as Ginny and Luna were both waiting for an answer, Harry rose unsteadily to his feet. Luna gripped his elbow firmly, leading him over to the dumpy not-quite-comfortable couch that Hermione had transfigured ages ago and—_how long have I been gone? _Harry wondered, exhaling lowly.

"I'm fine."

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah."

"That's splendid," Luna responded absently. She pulled out her wand and cast a non-verbal spell at him—the flesh on the back of Harry's head knit together, piece by piece, suffusing his skull in bizarre warmth that trickled down the thick of his spine and curled all the way to the tips of his toes. "That should do it, I suppose."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, scratching the back of his head. "Er, thanks Luna." He paused, eying the two of them guardedly. "I suppose you want answers."

"Oh, you don't have to tell us—"

"That would be nice, yes," Ginny interrupted, glaring fiercely at a point over Harry's shoulder. "After all, what reason could you have for disappearing for months on end with absolutely no explanation or indication of where, exactly, you might be?"

Harry frowned at Ginny in irritation. "Hermione left you a letter, didn't she?"

"And not much else," Ginny shot back hotly. "Say, for example, an _explanation._"

Harry's frown deepened at Ginny's irascible tone. Fingers gripping the arm rest of the couch, Harry glowered at the wall and scowled. He didn't fully understand why Ginny was so upset

(_a thought flickered in his mind, one of hands gripping hips and tugging them against his own as he pressed her shoulders into the wall behind her, tasting her over and over again only to remember that he had to—_

_leave walk away disappear_

—_go)_

but Harry had experienced the sharpness of her words and the strength of her independence many times before and it was enough for his chest to tighten in a warmth he wanted to forget as he sent a nasty glare in her direction.

"Lots of words but little substance," Luna reminded him.

Harry shrugged and picked at the blood drying on his fingers. "Well what did the letter say?"

"Instructions, mostly. We were told how to get you back and asked to send you into another memory."

Harry was moderately surprised. Whatever Hermione was doing in the past, she had left distinct instructions for others to follow because... why? Harry knew he had come up against a stumbling block; his relationship with Tom Riddle had disintegrated past the point of uncertain distrust and mild affection to complete and utter _hatred._ If Harry hadn't been so familiar with Voldemort's brand of acting out on that hatred, Harry might have left a little more injured by what Riddle had said. Instead, he could feel his own self-deprecating thoughts leaving him cold and tired—now that he was in the future, Harry didn't _want_ to be sent into another memory. He just wanted to lean his head back and close his eyes, to bask in the love and familiarity that were his friends. He didn't want the isolation. He didn't want to listen to the sneering remarks or deal with the fear that came with sacrificing part of himself for Tom Riddle to use and disregard however he pleased. There was a severe lack of empathy and mind-numbing _fury_ leading Tom's actions and the thought of seeing that utter disregard for another's well-being in Tom's expression left Harry continuously perched on the razors edge.

He didn't like it.

But Ron and Hermione were already in the past. This thought was nearly as startling as the thought of Hermione divulging _anything_ to Luna or Ginny—Ginny, especially, considering how adamant Harry had been to just _forget_ before he left—especially considering the sheer enormity of what they were doing. But if they were in the past, why hadn't they found Harry? Was it because of the nature of the spell? Were they bound by the magic, rendered just as incapable of seeing Harry, of being aware of his presence just as the others in the past were? And (_too-blue eyes were watching him from behind half-moon spectacles, dark and grim and familiar and that sickness was knotting his stomach again, making it difficult to think and breathe and it had to be grief, had to be sorrow left to rot and fester deep inside of him, infecting his blood-stream and turning his mind inside out until there was only memories-memories-__**memories**__ and no time for forgiveness_) even if that wasn't a problem, then what could they possible be doing in the past? What were they changing?

It didn't seem as though there had been any ripples—Harry still possessed that same warm affection for Luna, still wanted to hold and hide from Ginny (_desired her, more than anything_), still wanted to visit the Weasleys and feel Molly's arms wrap around him securely, feeling that pleasant unconditional love seep into his skin. But most of all—more than anything—Harry wanted Ron's palm to slap against the blade of his shoulder as he offered him an exaggerated grin, the solid weight of pure _understanding_ passing between the two; wanted to remember the sound of Hermione's reassuring words echoing in his ears, the strength of her hugs forcing him to inhale a mouthful of bushy hair; wanted to see Hermione scowling fiercely at Ron but loving him all the same, just as Ron sputtered in annoyance but couldn't stop loving Hermione, _either—_

But Ron and Hermione weren't there.

"Right," Harry said at length, rubbing his hands against his face tiredly. "Well, we have time, I suppose, before I have to go—"

"_No_."

Harry stared at her incredulously, unable to form the words. Slowly, he rose; Luna peered between the two of them, a curious smile curving her lips.

"Ginny," Harry heard himself say with unending patience. Ginny's eyes narrowed. "I'm going back."

"Luna," Ginny said with as much patience as Harry, "may we have a moment?"

"Certainly," Luna replied, tapping Harry absently on the temple as she moved passed him. "I'm actually quite hungry."

Harry snagged her before she could go. Tugging her towards him, Harry spared Ginny one long, indecipherable look before saying, "You don't have to leave, Luna."

"Luna, please_,_" Ginny insisted, but Harry's fingers were pressing into the dip of Luna's elbow, rendering her immobile. Luna hummed ambiguously.

"How curious. I've never been in the middle of a lover's quarrel before."

Harry inwardly recoiled, once again reminded of those uncomfortable truths the girl was so apt to point out. Not even Ron and Hermione were bold enough to describe Harry and Ginny as lovers in anything. Especially when such thoughts were wholly unwelcome and made Harry stew in a frustrated silence or snap at them in agitation. Luna, Harry had to remind himself, staring blankly at her shaggy blonde hair, was definitely worlds apart from what he was normally used to.

"If you could call it that," Ginny said without inflection.

"Come on, Luna," Harry muttered, tugging her towards the kitchen, "let's eat."

"Yes," Ginny agreed after a moment, staring long and hard at Harry, "let's."

xXx

"One hundred points," Avery said bleakly during breakfast the next morning, unknowingly clutching his toast to his chest and smearing marmalade all over his charcoal gray vest and green and silver tie. "_One hundred."_ Avery looked up abruptly, hazel eyes wide as he stared across the table at Dolohov. "How did he manage to lose us _one hundred points_?"

"How should I know?" Dolohov growled, slitting his eyes in Tom's direction. Tom dutifully ignored him, methodically eating a strip of bacon inch by inch. "I'm not the one that went around _destroying school property._ What do you think, Nott?"

Nott—a boy with brown eyes and muddy features—looked up from his breakfast and snorted scornfully. "There was probably some discriminating slur written in one of those books Tom's always has his nose stuck in. Or he spilled his ink all over his perfect hand-me-down robes and got angry. Maybe Avery managed to offend his _delicate_ _Slytherin_ _sensibilities_ and made Tom cry like a four-year-old. Who knows?"

"Tom doesn't cry," Avery pointed out absently, sinking down in his chair. "He storms angrily about. You know, um, temper-tantrums and all that."

Dolohov choked on his morning tea.

Nott hummed absently in agreement. "My mum is having a rough time getting my sister out of that phase. She's three, you know."

Tom twitched. Dolohov hastily stuffed more eggs into his mouth.

Avery nodded sagely. "Mum said I used to have that problem when I was younger, too. My brother used to rip off his nappies and fling his dung around everywhere."

Both Nott and Dolohov snorted loudly into their breakfast, trying and failing to stifle their laughter. Tom paused ever so slightly, turning to regard Avery with a curiously tense look. Flashing Tom a tight-lipped smile, Avery shrugged absently, lifting his goblet and taking a long draught from it.

_"Avery—"_

"Oh, don't give him that look, Tom Riddle," a voice spoke up suddenly. Tom turned slightly, his expression blanking as he took in the sight of Walburga Black and Druella Rosier standing behind him, shoulder to shoulder. Walburga's fury was like something out of a nightmare, Avery thought, cringing slightly. Druella didn't look any better—prettier, as Avery always thought she was, but Druella was staring at Tom with the sort hate-filled disgust that people were only courageous enough to send his way back before they realized Tom was a Parselmouth.

"_One hundred points_!" Walburga snapped shrilly when Tom continued to stare at her absently. "What makes you even think—I can't expect a half-blood... but _listen. W_e're _Slytherins. _I know you think have some right to prance around this school as if you own it, but Heir of Slytherin or not—"

"_Don't_," Avery cut in suddenly, rising to his feet. "Just... stop _talking._"

Walburga pinned Avery with her furious gaze. "Why? Why should I? Everyone knows—"

"Someone's certainly gotten bold," Dolohov murmured, eyeing the silent Tom carefully. "I remember, not even a few weeks ago you were so very sorry about what Lestra... well, you're being very bold Black."

"_I'm _being bold?" Walburga asked, a disbelieving laugh cutting the air. Her eyes continued to hold that furious tint. "You're _second years. _Riddle—"

"Please just go," Avery said quietly. He felt his body shifting automatically to serve as a barrier between the older girls and Tom. Discomfort crept up his spine again—the same discomfort he felt the moment Tom curled his fingers into his hair and _threatened_ him, sugar sweet but so very hateful at the same time. Avery didn't want to see that face again, not with everyone watching. The fact that Tom was sitting so silently, just _taking _Walburga's anger and disdain... that same feeling of wrongness was curling about in the pit of his belly, the one he had felt the moment Lestrange confronted him when he first sought to understand more about Tom, to see what was really behind those infuriatingly blank expressions...

Avery remembered the force of Tom's order, the way the words spilled from his lips so seamlessly—_Tell the truth—_and he remembered never wanting to go against that power again. He wondered when Dolohov started noticing it, wondered if Walburga Black was smart enough to even _see__._

Druella Rosier caught Avery's eye, then tugged on the sleeve of Walburga's robes. "Let's just go, 'Burga. These second years aren't worth our time." She paused. "Besides, I'm sure the Prefects will be more than willing to handle them."

"_Fine_," Walburga huffed, turning on her heel and following her friend down the table. "But _one hundred points_..._"_

A tense moment of silence past.

"At least someone understands how I feel," Nott said solemnly. His lips quirked as Avery retook his seat. "You have toast stuck to your front, by the way."

Cringing, Avery peeled the toast off of his vest and tossed it on the plate in front of him. He wasn't feeling very hungry anymore.

Tom remained silent, his steady gaze focused at some point down the table.

xXx

"He wants to know about the Dark Arts," Avery said between classes, appearing next to Dolohov so unexpectedly that the other boy jumped and stumbled on the hem of his robes. Righting himself, Dolohov glowered at Avery before glancing towards Nott—the boy stared at the both of them with wide brown eyes before making an inarticulate sound and gesturing vaguely.

"That's not surprising," Dolohov muttered, hoisting his satchel higher up on his shoulder, "but I really could care less."

"He requested that I speak to you," Avery said.

"More like bullied," Nott said, smiling crookedly at Avery's annoyed scowl. "But with him, it's pretty much all the same, if you ask me."

"I _didn't,_" Avery snapped, shoving Nott roughly in the shoulder. "Could you go away?"

Nott laughed. "See, I knew you couldn't have changed that much. One minute you're teasing Tom along with the rest of us and the next you're some pathetic—"

"_Shut up,_" Avery snarled, careening towards Nott. Nott danced away, keeping Dolohov firmly between the two, a taunting smile on his face as he watched the blond boy go red in aggravation. Dolohov rolled his eyes and continued down the staircases, hardly sparing Avery a glance.

"Not surprising," Dolohov reiterated, "but he has a point, you know."

"Look—"

"Why does he want to know?" Dolohov interjected, bowling over Avery rudely. "Not that I care, obviously, but my parents have always told me that's not something you talk about in polite conversation."

"Half-blood," Nott replied sotto voce, wiggling his fingers in Avery's face impishly. "Of course he has to make up for that filth somehow."

Avery sighed, rubbing his face wearily. "I don't know. He just brought it up. But I can't say anything because I don't know and—I told him to ask Lestrange."

Nott and Dolohov both choked rather loudly, whirling around to just _stare._ Avery fidgeted uncomfortably, catching the attention of one of the ghosts—the Bloody Baron swept eerily down the corridor and Avery flinched, gripping each boy by the sleeve and moving them towards the wall. Silver blood stained the cloak of the Baron as he hovered near them for a moment, eyes peering unseeingly down at them as his chains clanked together ominously. Then, without warning, he swept through the three of them, causing them to stiffen at the sudden unpleasant chill—its was as if they had all been doused with a bucket of ice water—and goose pimples erupted on their skin. The Bloody Baron sunk through the floor, head hovering over the flagstone for a moment more—and then he was gone, leaving the three boys huffing in discomfort.

"I _hate_ him," Nott muttered, rubbing his arms rapidly.

"I heard he's half mad," Dolohov said, nose crinkling in distaste.

"And Avery's _completely_ mad," Nott said loudly, jumping up and pointing a finger directly in the blond's face. "I mean, telling Tom Riddle to ask _Lestrange_—the gent who has been bullying him ever since he was Sorted—for a _favor_—" Nott burst into excited laughter, swinging his arm around Avery's shoulder and tugging him close. "I knew you had it in you. I _knew_ you hadn't changed."

"Don't be so disgusting," Dolohov groused, shoving Nott away from Avery.

"What did he do?" Nott continued, staring at Avery with bright eyes. "How angry did he get? Did he try to hex you? Hit you? Did he throw a tantrum like a six year old and storm off to... are you all right?"

Avery grimaced, refusing to meet their eyes. He had felt the blood drain from his face—felt his insides squirm unpleasantly and the sickening feeling of nausea rumble about in his stomach. Down the corridor, a group of Hufflepuff fourth years were chattering with one another—a girl's shoulders were slumped as she moped along behind her friends, eyes downcast and lips trembling ominously—with a flash of self-disgust, Avery straightened his shoulders and elbowed past Nott, snorting as the smaller boy fell to the floor. Dolohov huffed in irritation before following behind Avery with a roll of his eyes.

"Just because you can't pick on Tom doesn't mean you should pick on the rest of us."

"Are you going to tell me what you know or not?"

"He must have really scared you," Nott piped up, swinging up beside Avery and giving him a pleasant smile. Then he planted his elbow in Avery's stomach. _Hard._

Struggling for breath, Avery hunched over, glowering fiercely at Nott and Dolohov who just laughed at him unsympathetically.

"I hate you," Avery said breathlessly, rubbing his stomach. "I really, really hate you."

"If you have to hate anyone, hate Riddle," Dolohov said absently, scratching his cheek. "He's the one torturing you."

Avery winced. "I'm not—"

"Who's torturing Avery?" A voice cut in, and Avery felt himself go ramrod straight. Lestrange was standing not a few feet in front of him, half-hidden behind one of their other dorm mates. Malfoy was staring at the three of them with a strange expression on his pointy face, murky eyes pinched at the corners.

"Who else? Since Avery became Riddle's whipping dog—"

"Oh," Malfoy said disinterestedly, waving his hand in front of his face absently. "Well I already knew that." He frowned suddenly. "Speaking of which, it is rather odd to see you not hovering in his shadow like some demented half-spirit. Did he put you in time-out?"

Avery bared his teeth at Malfoy. "I _will_ hit you."

Malfoy rolled his eyes dismissively. "You're even starting to fight like a Muggle. No hexes? I guess hanging around that dirty half-blood really does give new meaning to the phrase 'mucking about in the filth.'"

Avery rolled his eyes. "I should tell him you said that."

"You won't, though."

"Only because he's standing right behind you," Avery pointed out, a sharp smile curving his lips. He waved absently. "Hello, Tom."

Malfoy jumped, whirling around—only to be met with nothing but an empty corridor. Nott erupted into choked laughter, biting down hard on his knuckles to stifle it. Dolohov rolled his eyes, but a mean-spirited smirk was curving the corner of his mouth upwards. Malfoy huffed, his shoulder going tense as he turned to stare at Avery; Malfoy's silver eyes were narrowed in agitation, glittering with a fury that reminded Avery all too well of Tom.

"That wasn't funny."

"Except that it was," Nott said with another huff of laughter. "I can't believe you're afraid of that half-blood!"

Malfoy sniffed primly, his hands twitching by his side. "Of course I'm not _afraid. _It's just..." Malfoy paused and peered at Avery, long and hard. "I don't understand. Why are you friends with him, especially when he..." Malfoy trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"I don't want to talk about this," Avery said shortly, folding his arms petulantly over his chest. "And as this is no concern of yours—"

"It's because he's the Heir of Slytherin," Lestrange cut in, staring intently over Avery's shoulder. His eyes were glassy. "You said as much, well. Before."

There was a long uncomfortable moment when no one said anything—Nott and Dolohov instantly found something fascinating about the other's face, but when staring became too awkward, they averted their gazes to the floor. Following their example, Avery peered idly at the flagstone that stretched beneath their feet; dust was beginning to coat the stones once again, the fine particles getting caught in an upsurge whenever one of the other boys shifted. Avery pondered that for a moment, the discomfort, but something else was gnawing at the pit of his belly, and every urge to ignore the fact that Lestrange had willingly conversed with him had him shifting his weight to turn towards Nott and Dolohov and continue his previous conversation.

"There's something wrong with him."

Avery licked his lips nervously and caught Lestrange's eye. "... yes."

"He's been worse lately," Lestrange said slowly, tugging at the sleeves of his robes, "hasn't he?"

"Yes," Avery answered shakily. "He wants to learn about the Dark Arts."

Malfoy sputtered. "He wants to do _what?"_

"I told Tom if he wanted anyone to teach him, it'd have to be you."

"Well," Lestrange said through gritted teeth, his sharp tone and expression something Avery was familiar with, but couldn't quite read, "I suppose I should get started then, shouldn't I?"

xXx

Avery was acting strange.

Under normal circumstances, Tom wouldn't have cared—didn't, actually, because Avery's feelings of discomfort meant absolutely nothing to him—but with the way Avery's eyes kept darting over to him only to skitter away moments later, Tom found his tolerance of the boy waning rapidly.

Closing his quill neatly in his Potions text, Tom pinned Avery with a steady stare.

"You are beginning to annoy me."

Avery twitched imperceptibly before lifting his head, meeting Tom's stare head on. "Oh." Avery frowned. "Have I done something—"

"If," Tom interrupted, his tone even and his expression perfectly neutral, "there is something you want to say to me, say it."

Avery paused.

"Or don't," Tom continued irritably. "But go away if you're going to—"

"Dolohov said he'd tell you about the Dark Arts!" Avery exploded in a whispered frenzy.

Tom froze.

The information didn't filter into his mind at first—Avery had said something that was meant to be important, that was supposed to mean something to him, but was overcome with disbelief. It was hazy and diluted and so strange, because Tom could remember being in control of his mind, of his responses and never had he been so unable to _think_.

"What did you just say?" Tom asked softly, slowly.

"I said… Dolohov, he said that—" Avery took a moment to glance around the Common Room, watching silently as a group of sixth years bent over their star charts and two fifth years huddled into a corner, touching fingers and smiling at each other warmly. "He'd teach you. About… what you asked about_._"

Tom's eyes glowed as the euphoria erupted inside of him. It was different from the glee he felt when he had shown Amy and Dennis the true meaning of pain, different from when he had strangled Billy Stubbs' stupid little rabbit… a gleefulness that was so consuming that Tom struggled just to _breathe._ He relished the feeling, grew high on it. His smile was razor sharp.

"Yes," Tom whispered feverishly. "_Yes._"

"Tom—" Avery's voice quavered in his distress.

"When?" Tom asked abruptly, his gaze catching Avery's and holding it with a force that left the other boy immobile. Avery's eyes widened slightly, the color draining from his cheeks—but Tom didn't care, couldn't care, because despite the fact that Tom _hated_ Avery, Avery had just given him the key to something he wanted very, very badly. His mind had been consumed with the thought of learning more ever since he overheard the upper years talking about the Dark Arts; he had been obsessed with the possibilities of what he could learn, of what he could _do_ and it was falling into his grasp oh-so-neatly… Tom couldn't pass it up. Didn't _want_ to pass it up.

"I…" Avery started in a tone Tom couldn't identify. Avery's gaze jumped about the room. "He didn't say, but… soon. I—I'll ask him again and… soon."

Slowly, so very slowly, Tom said, "I really do value you, you know."

Avery didn't respond.

xXx

Perhaps it was Harry's complete refusal to talk about anything complicated, but Ginny had been adamant on the three of them leaving Harry's run-down flat and meeting up at Luna's home instead of the Burrow. Luna's home was just as odd and stupefying as Harry remembered; the murals painted beautifully across her walls were enough to make his throat tighten as he stared at the neatly printed words lining the ceiling. _Friends, _it read, and for the longest time, Harry couldn't pull his eyes away.

"Here's the letter," Luna said, handing him a thick, folded up piece of parchment. "It doesn't say much, just instructions."

"It wouldn't," Harry answered, tucking the letter into his pocket without reading it. His attention was once again caught by the colors splashed over Luna's wall. "We weren't going to involve anyone else."

"So," Ginny started, crossing her arms and settling more comfortably on the edge of Luna's bed, "are you going to tell us why we cast a spell that pulled you out of a swirling vortex of doom or is this one of those _noble_ things where you just expect us to go along with you, no questions asked?"

"You're being unfair," Harry began crossly. "You know I would never ask you—"

"Of course you wouldn't. You just expect us to sit around and do nothing while you run off into danger as though—"

"Ginny,_ look—_"

"Don't use that tone with me, Harry Potter!" Ginny snapped venomously.

For a moment, Harry was struck dumb by the sheer intensity of her glare (_not like Tom's, never like Tom's, and it left a bad taste in his mouth to think so), _his insides crawling in unease. He had never liked the thought of hiding anything from Ginny, but the thought of anything happening to her—the very knowledge that the path that he, Ron and Hermione had decided to go down could bring her any sort of pain… Harry didn't like the feeling. Didn't even want to _think it_. But Ginny was there, in front of him, and the desire to just confide in her (_the way he used to, once upon a time, when she was his and only his and there was no such thing as heroism and sacrifice—except it had always been there, and Harry knew the taste of loss, better than anyone_) was a weight in his heart he knew he would never be able to rid himself of.

But more than that, Harry could recall, quite clearly, being seventeen and the suffocating crush that came with watching Ginny wade out into danger at the Battle of Hogwarts. Could remember, distantly, being twelve and his face draining of color the moment he saw Ginny lying cold and unresponsive on the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. The thought of anyone wading into danger _just for him _had always left him worried and uncomfortable, and after all they had been through in their Hogwarts years (_and beyond, because Harry could remember the way Ginny's eyes sparkled when she smiled, or the way her lips pressed against his own when they kissed, and he didn't want to lose those memories, not for the world, but the world was crumbling around him and this was all he could do to stop it)_ seeing any of the people he loved hurting and suffering was the most unbearable pain in the world.

There was no guarantee that they would survive whatever dangers going into the past could bring about. Even _knowing _that Harry, Ron and Hermione had gone back in time in an attempt to change it—_terrible things happen to those who meddle with time, _he'd been told once, back when things were easier and more about getting a family and less about struggling to keep it_. _Hermione had been clear when she told him that the spell was illegal, that using it could end with them spending the rest of their lives in Azkaban, so the thought that Hermione would bring Ginny and Luna in on what they were doing, even in the vaguest sense, was confusing and very difficult for Harry to swallow. He hadn't even told Ginny goodbye before he left…

Looking at Ginny, seeing the fury clouding her expression and keeping her shoulders bunched tight, Harry knew he couldn't tell her the truth. He wanted to—yearned to have the truths slip from his lips, to let her know of all the irritation and rage that had bubbled beneath his skin just as frequently as the _regret—_

_I'm ruining everything, _Harry wanted to say. _No matter what I do, I can't get through to Tom Riddle. I can't save him. I'm going to have to kill him._

_(Again, _a traitorous thought erupted, and something inside him wrenched because it would be _so easy, _even if he didn't _want_ to.)

"My mom used to practice theoretical spells," Luna said suddenly, looping a string of Butterbeer tops around her neck. "But then it back fired on her and I watched her die. I don't think the spell would have backfired if I hadn't been trying to get her attention and distracted her. I think this is one of those times when asking questions might make things worse than they already are, Ginny Weasley. Maybe we should just trust him. He is Harry Potter after all."

Ginny twitched. "_Luna_—"

"Hermione really is the smartest witch I know. If you can't trust Harry, I would at least trust her."

A flood of warmth suffused Harry then, his eye catching on the word _friends_ once again.

"I want to tell you. But… I promised Ron and Hermione. And—"

"Everyone has always and will always come second to them," Ginny finished bitterly, head bowed as she stared hard at her lap. "Fine, I won't ask questions. But you can be sure that I won't have any part of this. If you want to go gallivanting around in the past, that's your business. But I won't help you do it."

A cold rush of something (_shock euphoria relief fear rage_) coursed through Harry and he stared uncomprehendingly as Ginny set her jaw and stared firmly at their faces splashed against Luna's wall.

Harry's mouth worked silently for several moments, unsure of what to say, before he finally settled on: "What?"

"You heard me," Ginny said defiantly.

"But—_Ginny!" _Harry bellowed uncontrollably, surging to his feet and staring at her in complete disbelief. His heart thundered wildly in his chest. "There has to be three people to work the spell. I can't go back unless there are two people to anchor me and keep the magic from—Ron and Hermione are still—if I don't go back then—"

"Then," Ginny cut in curtly, looking Harry squarely in the eye (_she always did know how to catch his anger head on_), "You better get settled, I suppose. I imagine you won't be leaving for a while."


End file.
